Page 52 of Accidental Blind Date

“Because she’s Miss Libby!” Poppy shouts. “From the bookstore that Aunt Jenna takes us to!”

“Of course,” I agree, having no idea about any of this.

“Of course!” Libby says with a satisfactory smile as she hands us our books and a couple of bookmarks.

“Our dad has a bookstore too,” Poppy says.

“He has a lot of bookstores,” Delilah adds.

“But we like yours better.” Poppy ices the cake and I realize that I am in fact blushing. Fucking awesome.

I’d love for them to drop it. To take the books and leave. To be in a world where this conversation never happened. But as Libby clasps her hands together, leaning over the counter with a grin (and her perfectly perky tits on display while we are at it because, let’s face it, it would take more than a high collared blouse and a push up bra to hide those double D’s) I realize that that’s not the ideal world I live in.

This world, the realistic world, lives to torment me.

“Do you?” Libby asks. “Why’s that?”

“It’s prettier,” Poppy says.

“And funner,” Delilah adds.

“And the people that work there are nicer,” Poppy says with a smile and a sigh. “It’s just better.”

I look at Libby who is very much loving this (I am not), and usher my daughters away from the counter.

“I’m sure there are nice things about your dad’s bookstores too…” Libby offers.

“Not really,” Poppy lets out.

Libby snorts and pretends she didn’t. “Why don’t you girls go pick out a sucker from the lollypop tree before you leave?”

The girls lose their minds and scamper off, leaving me and Libby alone.

Great.

“I know what you’re thinking,” I say as soon as they are out of earshot.

“Do you? I’d love to hear it…dad.”

It takes everything in me to shut off the furnace of arousal that simple word ignites in me as she says it.

But this is serious. “Listen,” I lean in, my voice soft. “I lost their mother–”

“I know,” she nods. “My friend told me. She’s a teacher. And I’m sorry. I mean that.”

“It’s…complicated. I have to switch hats multiple times of day. And it’s just easier if I compartmentalize.”

Not to mention shut it off.

“I get that,” she says. And for some reason, I feel like she actually does. It’s a look in her eyes. Like something is familiar.

“I’m not who you think,” I say.

“And who is it you think that I think you are?”

“A cold hearted businessman. Who answers calls and texts from random women…” I let that trail off and Libby’s cheeks turn pink.

I relish it.