Page 53 of The Single Dads Club
Lesley rolls her eyes, then gives me a look of sympathy.
That’s what they call the mother of my child,the egg donor, since she didn’t want to be part of Grier’s life at all. She never wanted children, and as soon as Grier was born and placed in my arms, she split and hasn’t been in contact since. Which is for the best, as far as I can tell. She and I weren’t in love, weren’t even really a couple. She was just a hot attorney who worked almost as much as I did, and happened to like no-strings sex. What we had worked—until two pink lines appeared on a pregnancy test and then everything turned upside down.
“Your dick is going to fall off from lack of use, man,” Devin says with a smirk.
Not likely. My social life might be dead, but my sex drive sure as fuck isn’t. I still jerk it every morning in the shower. Just because I don’t have a willing partner doesn’t mean I don’t get horny. Of course I do. And if these assholes had any tact at all, they wouldn’t rub it in my goddamn face.
Bryce waves one hand in my general direction, squinting at me as he says to Devin, “Be nice to the guy. Maybe women just aren’t into the whole single-dad, workaholic vibe he’s got going on. Plus, he could really use a haircut and that shirt he is wearing is on the questionable side of fashion.”
There isn’t a damn thing wrong with my hair. I get it cut every four weeks like clockwork, and my shirt? It was black, tailored, expensive as hell and I have had no complaints about it before. Fuck them.
“You guys understand that I’m sitting right here, right?”
Unfazed, they shrug, and continue right on.
I drain the last of my Scotch and stand, tossing a couple of bills onto the table to cover the cost of my drink. “As much as I’ve enjoyed your running commentary on my love life, hair and fashion choices, I need to get home and relieve the sitter. ’Night, boys. Lesley.” I tip my chin toward her.
She smiles at me. “Don’t listen to these idiots, Lexington. Any woman alive would be lucky to have you—andthe beautiful little angel waiting for you at home.”
I chuckle. “Thanks. But she’d better not be waiting up for me at home. If I have to read thatHappy Sunshine Bearbook one more time, I’m going to throw myself out the fucking window.”
To a chorus of laughter, I head off into the night.
• • •
“Daddy! I’m awaaaaake!” my daughter hollers from her perch atop my stomach.
I jolt and crack my eyes open, looking first at her grinning face, then at the clock. “Grier, it’s five thirty.” Admittedly, my alarm will go off in only half an hour, but I was up later than usual last night, and I cherish every second of sleep I can get.
She bounces, forcing anooffrom me. “Hungwy.”
I guess I’m going to have to start getting used to the fact I now have a toddler and not a baby anymore. Ever since I moved her from a crib to a toddler bed, she’s been getting up earlier and earlier, and her morning greetings are not only becomingearlierbut alsolouder.
“Okay, baby girl, let’s get up and make some breakfast.” I set her down on the floor so I can climb out of bed.
I change her diaper, pour her a sippy cup of milk, and cut up half a banana to tide her over until I can cook her favorite breakfast; eggs. With Grier focused on her favorite cartoons, I check my phone quickly. Seven voice mails, ten texts, and almost thirty new emails. How the hell did so much happen before the sun even rose? But when you own as many properties as I do, it’s to be expected.
I tackle the easiest texts and emails while brushing my teeth and shaving, then take a lightning-fast shower while praying Grier doesn’t do anything crazy until I can get my eyes back on her. When I emerge from dressing for work, she’s careening around the living room, and I notice she’s eaten only two banana slices. But nothing seems broken, and I can’t bring myself to get into a battle of wills right now.
I put the earliest voice mail on speaker and listen while cracking and whisking eggs. It’s the superintendent of my Central Park property, asking me to talk to the AC repairman I contracted last week. I call them, bending my neck awkwardly to keep my phone to my ear while I stir the panful of scrambled eggs.
“Hearthside HVAC, Doug speaking. How may I help you?”
“Good morning. This is Lex Dane, of Dane Properties. Betty said you had some questions you needed me to answer?”
“Okay, let me see here ...” There’s a rustle of paper in the background. “Have you worked with us before?”
“Yes, many times.”
“What type of repair did you need?”
Frustration rips through me and I exhale out a breath. “I explained the problem when I emailed you last week. The central air isn’t working, and I need a diagnosis.”
“Sorry, but I’m not seeing any record of that conversation. Who did you talk to?”
I rummage through my memory and come up with nothing but a jumbled mess. It’s way too early, I’m uncaffeinated, and I’ve had about a thousand similar conversations this month.
“Whoever responded to my email inquiry. I don’t remember his name off the top of my head. It started with F, I think.”
