Page 28 of Don't Call Me Daddy
“Exactly. That’s why it’s your only one,” I snap before she can argue.
“Well, somebody’s stingy, aren’t they?”
I grit my teeth, growing more irritated. “Not stingy.Responsible …which seems to be a novel concept to you. Now, get your dirty sneakers off my sofa. Were you raised in a barn?”
“So sorry, Grandpa. I didn’t realize we were supposed to treat our homes like a museum.” She kicks off her shoes and delicately tucks them under the table.
“I’m not the odd one here for wanting to take care of my stuff. Now, I think we need to establish some ground rules if you’re going to stay here.”
I catch sight of her mismatched socks—an ankle and a crew—and I get a wave of full-body shivers. Seriously, how can she stand the feeling of two entirely different-length socks all day? In fact, I don’t know how she functions at all.
“Okay, rules. What do you have in mind?” She taps her finger to her lip and glances around the massive, open space. “Oh, I know this one! I can go everywhere in the castle, except for the west wing—that’s your beastly lair and completely off-limits.”
“Are you done?” I shoot her an annoyed look, to which she just shrugs.
“Anything the light touches is our kingdom?”
“Fuck me.” I shake my head and drain the rest of my beer.
She holds out her arms, crossing her fingers in an X. “Uh-uh. You said sex was off the table. If you want to throw in physical stuff, then I’m going to need to adjust my pricing?—”
I tighten my grip on my pint glass as a fresh wave of irritation boils under my skin. I don’t know how, but she seems to know exactly what to say to press my buttons.
My nostrils flare as I exhale long and slow, willing my blood pressure to come back down.
She’s looking for a reaction, and I need to tread carefully before I show her all my cards, or this little game has the potential to get out of hand—and quickly.
“For Christ’s sake,” I grunt, trying to play it off like I’m unbothered. “You know that’s not what I meant. Will you stop talking about prostitution so casually? I don’t like the idea of you even joking about that.”
The faintest bit of pink tints her cheeks, and she holds up her hands. “Touchy. Okay, fine. I’ll stop.”
I don’t miss her reaction to my little reprimand, and it certainly isn’t helping my cause.
“I just think we need some ground rules to make sure we’re meeting each of ourexpectations,” I continue, trying to get my mind back on track.
“Calm down. I know what you meant. I’m just giving you a hard time. Maybe I like making you squirm. Do you have a notebook or something? I’ll write down the rules, so we can make this official.”
I point her in the direction of my briefcase, and she skips off to retrieve pen and paper. Am I making a terrible mistake, going through with this? My better judgment tells me I shouldn’t be signing a contract or making any life-altering decisions after everything I’ve been through today. But when I feel the couch dip beside me and look up to meet those brilliant amber eyes, full of enthusiasm and wonder, all my hesitation and worries go right out the window.
There’s something about her energy that’s magnetic, it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before. When I look into her eyes, I see hope, and for some reason I don’t understand, it makes me feel a little lighter too. Even though it doesn’t make sense, I feel like if there’s anyone who can help me convince my family that I’m enjoying my life and I can handle juggling it all, it’s her.
You can do this, Leo. It’s not like you haven’t been practicing for the last decade.
Leo and Ivy’s Relationship Rules,she scribbles at the top of the page.
“Rule number one, no sex or sexual exchanges … or expectations of sexual favors from either party,” she says as she writes, then looks up, waiting for me to chime in.
I shuffle in my seat and scratch my now-days’ worth of stubble. “We should include an end date.” I think for a moment. “How about September 20? That’s the day of the Phantom Festival, when my dad will officially name his replacement. Thatshould give us enough time to make things feel real. Does that time frame work for you?”
“I’m leaving the country that day, but my flight isn’t until the evening, so it works out perfect. Now, I won’t have to fill in the gaps and find somewhere else to stay before I leave.” She scribbles something on the page, and then without looking up, she reads, “Thirty days to convince your family that you’re not a robot and you do in fact have work-life balance.”
I resist the urge to press her for more information, reminding myself that her personal life is none of my business … no matter how badly I’m starting to wish it were.
With a shake of my head, I bring my attention back to the contract. “Great. You are welcome to stay here until then, but I’ll need you to be available for work and social events. And you’ll need to play the part that we’re engaged, really make them believe I’m happy and ready to settle down.”
“The sugar daddy will pay the sugar baby to be available at his every beck and call,” she says as she writes, and I let out a frustrated groan. “What? What else am I supposed to call you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Leo? Or you seem to be quite fond of Grandpa …” I grab her empty cider glass and take it to the kitchen, feeling the sudden need to busy myself so I don’t talk myself out of this.
