Page 23 of Enemy Ex's Secret Baby

“Would that matter?” I grumble under my breath. The term “girlfriend” or “boyfriend” in Southern California is as meaningless as calling someone a buddy or pal. To some people, it means absolutely nothing if it stands in the way of what they want. The only reason Linda Drosney would care is in the case we might be interrupted, and she’d have to walk away with egg on her face.

She raises an eyebrow or tries to. The Botox makes it nearly impossible for her to move her forehead. “Beg your pardon?”

“Nothing, sorry, frog in my throat.” I clear my throat and then smile.

Linda smiles back, none the wiser to my comment. “What are you doing after this?”

My heart sinks into my stomach. I glance down subtly at my watch. Six minutes. Literally six minutes until I can leave this godforsaken event and I’m being hounded by an aging heiress looking for a date. “Um, well, it’s a Thursday–”

“I can’t imagine days of the week really matter to someone like you. You take after your father, don’t you?”

I grimace. In his heyday, Dad certainly was a bit of a party animal. After Mom passed away and before he got his hip replaced. “You know, in a lot of ways, I do,” I say, a queasy feeling coming over me. Turning into my father one day at a time. Someone stop me, please. “But unlike him, I really do like my beauty sleep.”

Linda takes a sip of her martini and then smiles, lips glistening with vodka. “Mm, I can tell.”

I swallow and look around. The event has started to thin out just a bit. I’d like to be a part of that mass exodus primly at eleven o’clock.

“You’re young, I think you can afford to live a little. That’s what my kids tell me.”

Jesus Christ. This woman is talking to me about her kids. Kids old enough and sentient enough to give her quips and witticisms. Textbook definition of a cougar. Listen, I don’t knock it for some people. But older women, at least substantially older women, have never been my cup of tea. “How old are your kids?” I ask, unable to contain my curiosity.

“Well, Brandon’s twenty-four–”

I nearly spit out my drink.

“And Keely is twenty-two–”

I’m starting to feel faint.

“And Frankie just turned eighteen! He’s the only one still at home with me, but he’s off to college in September.”

This woman might just be looking for a fling, but if she wants more than that, she sees me as a prospective stepfather to three grown adults. “How old do you think I am, Ms. Drosney?”

Her eyes bug out. “Please! Linda. Call me Linda.”

I take a deep breath. “Linda.”

“Better.” She grabs my arm and then leans away from me, taking in my stature and appearance with a critical eye that would be better used for identifying constellations or translating lost languages. Then, she leans toward me, closer than she should. I try to be polite and not duck away from her like she’s diseased, but her breath is soiled with alcohol and is making my insides curdle. “Young.”

Well, that couldn’t have been a creepier answer.

“How old do you think I am?”

I laugh. “I know better than that.”

She shakes her head and pulls herself into me, our hips nearly touching. “I’m asking, though. There’s a difference.”

I look into her yellow-brown eyes, examine her skin pulled taught like a drum, her duckish lips, and her auburn hair, clearly dyed and highlighted to hide any trace of gray. “Young.”

Linda’s eyes widen; she throws her head back with laughter, leaning into me. I laugh too, awkwardly, looking around to see if anyone is looking at us thinking what a strange pair we must be. Although, I guess that’s a fallacy in my head. In LA, there’s no such thing as a strange pair. Especially not when it comes to age.

“Axel Hitchins, you are…” Her hands slide up my arms to my shoulders. “Absolutely charming.”

I chew on my lower lip nervously.

“Let’s get out of here.”

“I can’t tonight.”

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