Though it isn’t nearly as hard as figuring out why the hell he’s texting me about wine now.
Does the man have no sense of self-preservation? He’s really coming back for more?
Me: Did you mean to text this to me?
The three dots appear right away, and almost instantly, his reply comes through.
Daddy: Obviously. Who else would I bring wine to?
Me: After the way you left this morning, I figured you wouldn’t come tonight.
Daddy: I said I was coming.
Me: Yeah, last night before…I said what I said.
Daddy: I have no idea what you’re talking about. Did you say something weird?
I roll my eyes, picturing the cocky smirk he’s wearing right now.
Me: Don’t play coy.
Daddy: Tell me what kind of wine to bring, baby girl. Or would you rather discuss what you said last night?
I grunt. He’s infuriating. Is this man seriously coming back for more?
I navigate to the girls’ group chat, alerting them to the 911 situation on our hands. Then I tell Camden that Rosalie only drinks Chianti and not to spend too much. She’s a cheap date.
Two hours later, I’ve parked myself at a table at a coffee shop close to home, and I’m staring at my computer screen while I wait for Josie.
A blank screen.
Because I don’t have a clue what I should write. Every word feels like a lie.
Don’t sleep with him on the first date—whoops did that.
Talk about yourself, not your exes—unless he begs you to tell him about everyone you’ve fucked and makes you come while you do it.
Jealousy is toxic—or he’ll find it insanely attractive when you claim him.
Each of those scenarios on their own could be looked past, yeah, but the future baby conversation? That shouldn’t be negotiable. I should be able to tell my readers with complete certainty not to do it. But Camden has me questioning everything I’ve ever known about dating.
“You look pissed.”
Startling, I straighten and snap my head up.
Josie is standing over me, an amused expression on her pretty freckled face.
I blow out a breath. “More like confused. Befuddled. Lost.”
“Befuddled, huh?” Smirking, she pulls out the chair across from me and picks up the coffee I ordered for her.
“Okay, get this,” I say, snapping my laptop closed. “Last night I sent Camden my ovulation tracker?—”
“Wait, you’re tracking your ovulation schedule?”
I blink slowly, holding back an annoyed sigh. “Obviously not. I just downloaded the app and put in fake information. Then I sent it to him.”
She snorts, her fair skin going pink. “Okay, you may continue.”
