Page 27 of Don't Call Me Daddy
Besides, at thirty-five, I’m sure I’m way too old for her to find me attractive. Hell, she’s already calling meGrandpa. All I’ve got to do is keep my eyes down and remember the bigger picture. That’s easy enough, right?
The thought alone gives me indigestion, but what else is new?
“Wait. This is your house?” Ivy’s mouth drops open as she pulls up to the ornate wrought iron security gate.
“Yes. This is my home. Can you press the call button? I don’t have my key.”
She reaches out and presses the call button, buzzing it several times, making a jingle.
I lean over and grab her arm to stop her, and she sucks in a breath. The clean scent of citrus from her shampoo sends a wave of heat up my spine.
“Once is plenty,” I say, retreating back to my seat.
A moment later, the gate swings open, and I’m greeted by my security officer over the intercom. “Welcome home, Mr. Kingsley.”
“Fancy,” Ivy says as she eases the car up the winding driveway. Her eyes grow wider and wider as she takes in everything on the property. “You live here? Like, this is yourhouse?” she asks as she parks in the small parking lot outside the front door.
“Yes.” I climb out of the death mobile, my shoulders sagging in relief to finally be home after this grueling day, and make my way into the house.
Ivy follows closely on my tail, peppering me with her endless burning questions.
“But … why?”
“Why what?” I say as I open the door, kicking off my shoes and making a beeline to the fridge.
“Why is your house so massive?”
I open my beer and take a long pull, and the ice-cold liquid takes a bit of the edge off my nerves. “Because I’m rich.”
“So, all of this”—she gestures in a circle around her—“is just for you? One person? No one else lives here?” She raises an eyebrow.
“Yes. It’s just me.”
I move past her and make my way to the living room, where I plop down on my leather sofa. I take another sip of my beer, and when I look up, she’s across the living room, inspecting pictures on my bookshelves.
“What are you doing?”
She sniffs the candle in her hand, then pulls away, wearing a look of disgust. “I’m making sure you’re not a murderer, luring me here to kill me … obviously,” she says as she places the candle down on the wrong shelf.
“And you’re going to find that out by digging through my bookshelves and rearranging my stuff?”
Her spine stiffens, and she turns around, crossing her arms over her chest. “Yes, actually. It was a test.”
“What was a test? Did I pass?” I ask, feeling even more confused.
She walks toward me and takes a seat on the opposite end of the sofa, then props her dirty white Converse sneakers on my three-thousand-dollar coffee table. “Can I have a beer?”
My eyes catch on the wings she’s doodled on the side of each sneaker in black marker, and I can’t help but wonder what that could mean. I’m slowly collecting little clues that has me forming a better idea about her, whether I mean to or not.
Hell, I certainly don’t want her to scrutinize minor details about me, so it’s best to drop it. It’s none of my business anyway.
I push myself up with a grunt and head to the kitchen. “IPA, milk stout, pilsner …”
“Oh, do you have anything that tastes like apple juice?” She snaps her fingers as she tries to think of the name. “What’s it called?—”
“Cider,” I answer as I place the cold mug in her hand, having already predicted what she’d ask for, which earns me a massive grin of approval.
She crosses her legs on top of each other and gingerly sips her drink, making a loud slurping noise. “Ooh, this is good. It doesn’t taste like alcohol at all?—”
