Page 4 of Biggest Player (Not Yours #2)

Margot

I may be an adult, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love letting my parents take me to dinner and treat me to a free meal.

A nice meal at that.

I lean back in my chair so the server can set the plate in front of me, smiling and thanking her once she’s through placing it, adjusting the white linen napkin on my lap.

A crystal chandelier hovers above us, casting a soft golden glow over the table, where a small vase of roses decorates the center, low enough that I can see my Mom, Dad, and Wyatt without leaning this way or that.

The sound of clinking silverware against porcelain fills the air.

I take a sip of wine, trying to savor the moment before what’s coming next.

“So,” Mom begins, eyes twinkling. “Been on any dates recently?”

She’s never been subtle in her attempt at prying into my love life, not that I blame her. Now that I’m a mother, I’m sure I will be the same way once Wyatt is old enough to be in a relationship.

“Ah, the perennial question.” I swirl the wine in my glass with a theatrical flourish, focusing on the red liquid inside simply to avoid answering the question. “You know, Mom, I’ve decided to focus on my career as a professional Wyatt wrangler. It’s very demanding.”

Wyatt titters, pleased that I’ve included her in my response.

Dad smiles patiently. He’s not as invested in my personal life as my mother but occasionally gets curious enough to raise his brows.

“Mom is on a dating app,” my daughter announces to the table, happy as you please.

She twirls her pasta on a fork and takes a bite, ignoring my gaze.

“Was that necessary?” I mutter. “Announcing it to the entire table?”

“Dating app?” Dad asks. “My buddy Roger is on a dating app.” He makes quick work of cutting the broccoli on his plate with his steak knife. “Probably not the same one, though, he’s in his seventies.”

Wyatt does her best to stifle a childlike giggle.

I chuckle nervously, exchanging a knowing glance with my mom—she’s the one who got us into this conversation. I had hoped to avoid it, not wanting to discuss men in front of my daughter.

“I don’t have my search set to anyone that old.” I lift a forkful of chicken to my lips. “But if I see Roger, I’ll let him know you say hello.”

“Margot!” Mom gasps. “You better not be swiping on old men!”

I can’t help but laugh at the expression on her face. She’s horrified at the possibility of me swiping on my father’s golf buddy? As if I would do that, even to say hello.

“Yup, it’s just me and a sea of men, swiping left, swiping right, hoping to find the one.” I wink at my dad. “Swipe, swipe, swipe.”

My father has had his eyebrows raised this entire time. “No luck?”

I hesitate for a moment, trying to choose my words carefully. “Well, let’s just say there have been a few interesting men.”

Wyatt smirks. “Interesting? Is that what we’re calling them now?”

I shoot her a playful glare, trying to deflect and change the subject. “How is it you’re only ten?”

She acts nineteen.

My mother leans forward, curiosity piqued. “But seriously, what’s it like? Do you ever worry about meeting someone dangerous ?”

“Dangerous?” I shrug. “Sure, but not really. Everything carries a risk, Mom. But I like to think I have a pretty good radar for detecting red flags.”

As I’ve done with that Dex character.

What a douchebag that guy is!

I take a few mental jabs. Pow pow—take that, catfish!

Wyatt sits contentedly in her seat, nodding along. “Mom is like a dating app de tec tive. She can spot a catfish from a mile away.”

Confession of a single parent: I may have shared that Dex story with my child at bedtime the other night—don’t judge me. I’m a single mom, and hey, sometimes entertaining stories are hard to come by!

Plus, Wyatt knows I’m trying to date, and it’s only fair that I keep her sort of informed.

Baby bits, anyway. She doesn’t need to know everything.

“I wouldn’t call myself a red flag detective, but I do smell bull poop from a mile away. That much is true.” I smile at my daughter. She’s too adorable. “I’m having fun at least. I’ve only pissed one man off so far!” I add. “But he deserved it.”

Mom puts her fork down on the plate; it clinks. “What do you mean? What happened?”

My shoulders move up and down in a shrug. “He was lying in his profile and using fake pictures, and I called him out on it. It’s not fair to women for men like that to prey on them.”

“You’re so brave.” My mother holds a hand to her heart dramatically.

“It must be strange meeting someone for the first time after chatting online.” My father wields the butter knife, waving it this way and that as he talks. “Do you ever worry about whether they’re like their profile?”

“Totally. That’s called a catfish—when people lie and use photos that don’t belong to them.”

“Ah,” he says. “I was wondering what that meant but didn’t want to ask.”

“You learn something new every day, Grandpa,” Wyatt chimes in with all the wisdom of her youth.

I sigh, feeling a twinge of vulnerability creep in. “I think I already have app fatigue.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s burnout. When you’re on it too much, or it’s not giving the results you want, you burn out.

” I pick at the food on my plate. “I’m not saying I want to give up, I’m only saying .

.. if I see one more man holding a fish, or read one more biography where the guy is searching for his partner in crime, I’m going to explode. ”

“What’s wrong with saying you want a partner in crime?” Dad’s fork is suspended in the air. “Your mom is mine .”

They really are cute.

And close.

Which is one of the reasons it hasn’t been easy to find a man who wants to dive in headfirst and commit to me.

“Why can’t you meet someone at the grocery store?” Mom finally says, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with the napkin that was on her lap. “I don’t understand why you’re still single. You’re a beautiful girl, Margot. You’re funny, you’re smart.”

I stare at her. “I wish it was that easy.” Believe me, I have my eyes on more than the produce when I’m at the store, no stone left unturned and all that.

Not that I’ve been looking hard the past few years. It’s only recently that I’ve decided to launch myself into the Datingverse.

“What about Ricky Robinson, Paul and Nancy’s son?” Mom asks. “He recently got divorced. He’s living with them right now, but only because his ex-wife bled him dry.”

“Bled him dry? He sounds fun.” And just what I’m looking for. A man who lives down the hall from his mom and dad, with a bitter ex.

“Don’t be judgmental,” Mom scolds me. “He has a good job at a wealth-management firm.”

A finance bro?

No thanks.

I don’t care who his folks are—I do not need to date the man living in a basement. And despite the inquisition and the frown upon my mother’s face, I know my parents and Wyatt are my biggest supporters.

They’re always there to lift me up when I need it most and want me to be happy. The problem is, they think that road to happiness includes a man, and that ideology isn’t likely to change.

“Pump the brakes on giving him my number.”

Mom’s lips purse, but she gives me no argument.

“So no dates yet?” Dad attempts to lighten the mood by continuing to pry, as if this were the only available topic of conversation in their Rolodex of topics.

“No dates,” I reiterate. “I’m working on it.”

He makes a humph sound, head down, focusing on his plate. “How is work going?”

So glad he asked! So glad he changed the subject!

“Great. I lucked out this year—no parents have complained so far. No injuries, no accidents.”

Yet.

I love being a first-grade teacher, but occasionally it’s not as fun as it sounds, especially when I have a student who cannot seem to behave themselves. Or keep their hands to themselves. Or is prone to crying or getting into scuffles on and off the playground.

This must be my year because so far, so good.

Twenty little angels I am pleased to call my students.

“Well, aren’t you lucky.” Mom smiles. She knows all my work-related business—she’s a teacher, too—and although we’re not in the same school district, she knows what it’s like.

She gets it.

“Can I be excused to use the bathroom?” my daughter asks, napkin set on the table, halfway out of her chair.

I nod. “Yes, of course. Do you know where it is?”

Her head bobs up and down. “Around this wall and toward the back.”

I tilt my cheek so she can bend and give me a smooch. “Don’t take long. If you’re not back in ten minutes, I’m sending out a search party.”

Kidding, not kidding . . .

The remaining three of us watch as she bounds off, destination in a spot with low visibility.

Dad clears his throat to gain my attention. “So. Have you heard from Colton?”

I groan.

Of course they would bring him up.

The good news is, they didn’t bring up Wyatt’s father in front of her.

“No, I haven’t heard from him.” Nor do I expect to.

I was seventeen when we met.

I wouldn’t call us high school sweethearts, though.

We didn’t start dating until we ran into each other at a fraternity party my sophomore year while attending the same university.

I was in school for elementary education, and Colt was getting his bachelor’s in business, and one drunken night during Greek formal . ..

Wyatt was conceived.

The thing is, we were never a couple.

We dated here and there, but it wasn’t serious—and so, Colton is in her life, but it’s the sort of strained relationship between two people sharing a common bond and not much else.

Our child is our bond.

Did we try to make it work? Sure, of course. Why wouldn’t we?

No one wants to be an unwed mother.

But it didn’t take us long to realize we weren’t meant to be, and now Colton has Wyatt every other weekend and his holidays and takes her on his family vacation once a year.

“How is he doing?” Mom asks.

“Fine.” I look down at my plate. “The same. The usual.”

Just dandy. Kind of a dick, to be honest, but dandy.

“Is he still with Gretchen?”

“Yup.”

Gretchen is Colton’s girlfriend. They’ve been together for about a year, and from what Wyatt tells me, they talk every so often about moving in together.

Which is his business—unless it affects our daughter.

“How did they meet?” Dad wants to know, though we’ve been over this before. “I forgot.”

“Dating app.”

“Ahh.” He leans back in his seat, satisfied with that answer. “Shouldn’t be too difficult for you then, hey?”

I pretend to ponder the question for a moment, tapping my chin thoughtfully. “If you don’t count the guy who tried to impress me with the number of vintage boxed action figures he has in his spare bedroom.”

My father smiles. “Nothing wrong with having hobbies.”

He’s referring to his collection of sports memorabilia, of course— the collection that costs thousands and thousands of dollars .

“That’s true.” I nod solemnly. “Where would I be without all my holiday decorations?”

I have dozens of totes of ornaments, baubles, lights, garlands—anything and everything to make the house festive in winter, spring, and fall.

Glancing around, I see no sign of Wyatt reemerging from the direction in which she went. I crane my neck to look for her.

“How long has Wy been gone?” I ask my parents, taking the napkin off my lap, ready to rise.

“She’s fine, Margot. What trouble could she possibly get into? The exit is on the opposite side of the room.” Dad gives me a patronizing grin.

True.

But there is such a thing as stranger danger; the world is full of creeps, and therefore, “I’m going to check on her.”

I need an escape from this conversation.

My parents nod when I stand, and resume eating as I excuse myself to see about my daughter.

I stop short when I round the corner and find her chatting it up with a glamorous couple several tables away from the powder rooms, bantering and tossing her head back, giggling as if she’s known the man all her life. As if he’s said the funniest thing ever .

“Wyatt Hazel St. John!” I gasp, horrified. “I was about to send out a search party for you!” I chastise, heart racing like a bullet train, about to thump right out of my chest.

I put my hands on my daughter’s shoulders.

“I am so sorry.”

Stop speaking.

Stare at the man who just two seconds ago was giggling with my kid.

I don’t recognize the voice, but I definitely recognize the face.

The hair at the back of my neck rises as I study him.

The man turns his head in my direction, catching my gaze.

“No. Way.” Is there sound coming out of my mouth? “It can’t be.”

There is no way.

But it is him. Has to be, there is no mistaking it.

The guy from the dating app—the one I got into an argument with because I implied he was a catfish.

Idiot.

Asshole.

Narrowing my eyes, I direct my glare at his face and give him my haughtiest tone.

“You. What are you doing with my daughter?”