Page 73 of Pucking Daddy

There’s a beat. Then he says, quieter, “I don’t take a lot of women out.”

I blink. That’s not what I expected. At all.

“Really?” I ask skeptically.

“Really.”

I cross my arms, leaning back slightly. “I don’t believe you.”

He huffs out a breath. “I didn’t say none. I said not a lot.”

“Okay,” I concede. “These women you didn’t take out very often—did they usually make it to a second date?”

His grip shifts slightly on the steering wheel.

“Why does it matter?” he asks.

“It doesn’t,” I say immediately.

Lie. Lie. Lie.

I turn to the window again, but my mind is already running in a direction I don’t like.

I think of all the women he’s taken out. That he’s kissed. That he’s done other stuff with.

Apparently, you can be irrationally annoyed at a bunch of women you’ve never even met.

I shift in my seat, fingers brushing absently over the fabric of my dress.

Finally, he answers with a sigh, like he’s already over this conversation. “There weren’t many second dates.”

That surprises me.

I glance at him again. “Your standards are that high?”

“Maybe.”

“Or maybe you’re just difficult.”

“That too.”

A small smile tugs at my mouth despite everything.

“Good to know,” I murmur. “So I can be really glad this isn’t a date, huh?”

“Probably true.”

We arrive at the restaurant, and it’s fancier than I expected.

Low lighting. Polished surfaces.

The kind of place where people speak a little quieter without being told to.

I glance at him, uncertain, because everything about this screams “date” to me.

A hostess approaches, her smile brightening slightly when she recognizes him.

“Mr. Halberg. Your table is ready.”