Page 20 of Who's Your Daddy
The moment I open my phone and tap on the notification, I gasp and clutch the device to my chest.
Boobs. Huge big boobs fill the entire screen. Whose, I couldn’t say. They’re as unfamiliar as the number.
Heart hammering, I peer over my shoulder, worried someone else caught sight of the image on the screen. When I confirm that I’m alone, I let out a long breath and hold the phone up again. Then immediately delete both the message and the image. I also block the person.
I didn’t read the message, so I don’t have a clue who it was from. All I can think about is what would have happened if Murphy had been watching a movie on my phone when the text came in.
Dread swirls in my stomach.
Definitely won’t be using my phone for that.
I swear women don’t send me boob pictures often.
Okay, notthatoften.
I think it’s because I’m British. The accent makes women do stupid things. Even Sully, bad attitude and all, only has to say hello and women bat their lashes at him.
It’s pointless on their end. My brother has never looked twice at a woman other than his wife. For as much as Sloane complains about him, she couldn't fault him for giving anyone else attention. Ever. Unfortunately, he just never gave her attention either.
His tunnel vision and obsession with Sloane worked well for me. It meant I got all the love from the women.
I set my phone on the dresser, but I pick it up again instantly, thinking better of it. Grumbling about the rack attack and my fear that it could happen again, I turn it off and stuff it into my drawer, nestling it between two jumpers. There. Murphy can’t be attacked by boobs now.
Done caring for the plant in my bedroom, I stroll out to the living room, where Murphy and Sully are sitting at the dining room tableBrian had delivered today. It’s dark mahogany with eight chairs. It absolutely doesn’t fit the space. Especially because the pool table I ordered was also delivered today. Now they sit side by side, warring for a spot in the open floor plan.
“My pool table came with a top. We should get rid of that monstrosity.” I nod at the enormous surface they’re perched around as I shuffle to the fridge. Sure, the top is actually a Ping-Pong surface, but it could serve multiple purposes, right?
Sully holds up a bottle of Hanson whiskey, silently offering me a glass. I shake my head and pluck a bottle of water from the shelf in the fridge.
“You can’t eat dinner on a pool table.” Brian skirts around me with a large platter in hand.
I follow and drop into a chair beside my little guy. Holding back a grimace, I study the meat loaf, then eye Murphy.
Surely the kid thinks it looks as inedible as I do.
I watch as Brian puts a slice on Murphy’s plate, secretly waiting for him to tell Brian just that. Murphy cuts a small piece off with his fork and pops it into his mouth without complaint.
Dammit, normally I can count on T.J. to throw a fit about grown-up food. That’s when I swoop in to save the day, offering to order a pizza. But it looks like I’ll have to eat with the big boys now.
“Is your bedroom okay?” Brian asks Murphy as he sits at the head of the table.
I grin down at my plate. Murphy’s bedroom is awesome, regardless of what Brian and my brother said about the race car bed being too little for him. He fits just fine.
Murphy’s eyes cut to mine quickly, then veer back to his plate. He stabs another forkful and nods. “Yeah, it’s fine.”
There’s no stopping the smirk that twitches at my lips. That is until I force a bite of meatloaf into my mouth. Ugh. I fight a shudder. I have no idea why Americans like this so much. Tastes like a dry hamburger.
Needing a distraction, I reach out and swipe a Ping-Pong balloff the table behind us. I toss it up in the air twice before bouncing it off the side of Sully’s head. I’m hoping for a reaction, but the man hardly gives me the side-eye before he scoops his next bite off his plate. Damn he’s in a mood.
A phone rattles loudly in the other room, making us all sit up. It’s my brother’s. He’s got his ringtone set to that loud jangle that screams nineties mobile. I wince every time I hear it.
Sully lifts himself from the table. To anyone else he’d seem unbothered as he moves to his room to get it, but I know better. Rather than his usual slow amble, he walks with purpose, obviously on high alert.
I can almost guarantee his son T.J. is on the other end of the line. This is about the time the two of them talk every night.
When my brother speaks, using the softer tone he reserves only for his son, my assumption is proven correct.
“What do you want to do tomorrow?” I ask Murphy.
