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“Look, can you help me or not?”
“Depends. What’s it worth to you?” I play with my fingernail in a nonchalant manner, attempting to be funny but he clearly isn’t in the mood.
“Can you please stop with your attempt at flirting and focus.”
“I wasn’t flirting,” I scowl, his attitude kind of pissing me off.
Okay, I was attempting to flirt a little but calling me out like that wasn’t exactly necessary.
“I’ll pay you cash and it will just be for a few hours.” He glances at his watch and I can see that he truly is flustered.
“Yes, yes, I can watch her.”
“Her favorite snacks are in here; she’s already had a bath and is in her pajamas. She will probably be asleep within an hour.” He thrusts the bag toward me, no thank you or you’re amazing for helping me out.
“I got it,” I say, reaching out and taking the bag from him.
“You sure?”
“Yes. Go to your dinner, I have your number if anything happens.”
“Thank you. I owe you one.” He looks past me and calls for Daisy who runs over to give him a hug goodbye before returning to my craft station in the corner of my living room.
“By the way, how did you get into my building? You’re supposed to have a fob or get buzzed in.” I raise an eyebrow at him.
“I own the building and the entire block,” he says nonchalantly as he walks through the door toward the elevators.
“Of course you do,” I mutter to myself. “Just don’t be too late, Mr. Vaughn. I need to make sure I make my shift at the Sugar Factory,” I laugh at my own joke about one of the famous strip clubs out by the airport. I turn around and start to close the door when suddenly his hand is on the door, yanking it back open and pulling me halfway out into the hallway. “What the?—”
“Do you always have to be a smart-ass?” He towers over me, his voice low and a touch menacing as a smirk settles on his lips. My belly does that flip-flop thing that makes me almost dizzy with excitement.
“Do you always have to get the last word in?”
He’s not flirting; he’s just an asshole. He made that abundantly clear a moment ago.
I remind myself not to read into these little comments and smirks from him. Men like him get off on making others feel inferior to them. Even knowing that, I don’t know what it is about this man, but he brings out my inner rebel, or maybe it is my inner smart-ass. Maybe it’s because men like him just assume that every woman wants them and they’re used to getting what they want. Whatever the reason, it makes me want to antagonize him, even though I know I’m playing a dangerous game.
“Just saying.” I shrug. “It’s hard to live on a teacher’s salary in the city.” When I worked as a public schoolteacher, that was absolutely true, but now at a private school, I make three times what I did. “A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”
The smirk slowly dissipates from his face as his brow knits together. I can’t tell if he’s angry or concerned. “Tell me you’re joking,” he says, his tone serious. I laugh but he says it again. “Say it, Daphne.” This is the first time he’s said my name and it sounds delicious in his low, almost growling tone, even if he is angry at me.
“I was joking. Jeez. I don’t work there.”
He releases the door, turning around and walking to the elevator without another word. I stand there for a second, thoroughly confused when Daisy’s small voice brings me out of my thoughts.
“Can we do a paint by number?”
I spin around as she holds up one of the canvases that has two puppies on it.
“Of course we can.” I smile and lead her over to the coffee table where I set up a piece of plastic and grab the paints. “What color do you want to start with?” I ask, holding up some options for her.
“Glitter!” she shouts as she grabs for an iridescent pink. “Where’s your mom?” She focuses her attention on the picture, spreading the paint with small, slow strokes of the brush like I showed her.
“Oh, I live alone. My parents don’t live with me.”
“My mom died,” she says matter-of-factly.
“Um…” I pause for a second, completely unsure how to handle this situation. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. My mom died too.” I don’t know if I should have shared that. I don’t know what her father has taught her about death or an afterlife. “Tell me something about your mom,” I say, hoping to steer the conversation into a more positive light.
