Page 11 of Enemy Daddy Next Door

“Now, I told you not to jump to conclusions about what I’ve written,” Jordan tries to temper my shock.

“No way! There’s no way…” An image of Hunter standing before me without a shirt on and that measly towel covering his…God, I feel hot around the collar just thinking about it and I’ve never even had that part of a man anywhere near me. “Okay, maybe not no way, but…”

“Ah…”

“Jordan!”

She smiles like she’s eaten the last cookie from the jar. “Sorry.”

“It’s just…if I feel anything. Which is attraction, at most. Physical attraction. Certainly not mental given his propensity to –”

“Ooh, good word.”

“Thank you, I’m a writer.”

We both giggle.

“Anyway, he’s not my type. And it would never in one million years happen.”

“Why?”

“Jordan!”

“Amy! What?!”

I grunt in frustration. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m sorry, I’m just trying to get you to look at the thing you’ve been ignoring. Won’t that feel better than just glossing past it for the one millionth time?”

Yes. I know it will. We spent our first two months of sessions with me glossing over my mother. Eventually, I broke down. It feels so much easier to ignore a problem until it’s been buried so deep down it erupts like a volcano, spewing smoke, ash, and lava all over your life.

But have I really been doing that with Hunter?

“Even if I did feel that way, which I’m not saying I do –”

“Of course,” Jordan affirms.

“He’s much too old for me.”

Jordan tilts her head from side to side. I can tell she’s about to refute this idea. After all, my older sister is married to a man over twenty years her senior and everything seems to be hunky-dory.

“And he doesn’t actually care about any of these women. He’s just looking for a piece of ass to pass the time.”

“Well, then that’s a good reason to stay away.”

I chew on the inside of my cheek. Even if I were a different kind of woman, a woman who felt free enough with her body to give it to any man she pleased, Hunter wouldn’t be interested. All the women who traipse through his life are the bombshell bimbo type.

Well, that’s not fair to those women. Just because they look a certain way doesn’t mean they don’t have worthwhile careers or intelligent thoughts. But most of them have that bleached blonde hair, fake boob lifestyle that permeates Southern California.

That’s not me. I keep my hair natural, I’m kind of short in comparison to the model types, and definitely don’t dress like them. I’m much more inclined to a pretty floral dress than something so tight to my skin it looks impossible to take off. God, even thinking about it makes me claustrophobic.

“He wouldn’t ever be interested,” I say to Jordan definitively. “Not that I’d even want him to be.”

“Of course,” Jordan replies. She clicks her pen and strikes through her note. Why does that simple motion of her pen tear through my heart? Sure, I just said it’s an impossibility, but now that she’s indicated that, I want to prove her wrong. “I’m glad we followed the thread.”

I nod. “Me too.”

Although, the truth is, I just started following this thread. And from the looks of it, it’s going to take a lot of time to unwind.

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