Page 10 of The Love Playbook

“Do you still take cream and sugar in your chai?” my father asks, glancing up at me.

“If it doesn’t taste like Christmas in a cup, I don’t want it,” I say.

Beside me, Chris scoffs while my father glances at him, grinning as he hands him a cup of what I presume is coffee by the nutty aroma wafting toward me.

I find it interesting my father has only met Chris once before, yet he knows how he takes his coffee, but he had to confirm how I take my tea.

I push the thought aside, along with the bitterness coating my tongue. It’s not like I’m around much these days. A lot can change in a short time. Take my father for example. Never in a million years would I have imagined him dating this meathead’s mother.

On that thought, I take a bite of cheesecake, mostly to keep my mouth busy so as not to open it and get myself in trouble.

Flavor floods my tastebuds, forcing me to stifle a moan.

Damn, that’s good.

I eye Barb from my chair, wondering if there’s anything she isn’t good at. Compared to my mother, she’s freaking Betty Crocker. The last time my mother tried to make a dessert, it was Christmas my senior year, and she promptly burst into tears when she pulled the cake from the oven and the middle sank.

I slide my gaze to my father, who exchanges a secret smile with the woman beside him, and the contents of my stomach curdle.

It’s not that I don’t like Barb. Quite the opposite, actually. If anything, I feel sorry for her because this thing between them will never last. I give it another couple of weeks before he gets bored and moves on to his next victim. It’s been his pattern ever since his split with my mother. Sometimes, I wonder if she broke him.

I finish the last of my cheesecake in silence while Barb and my father make small talk, then wash it down with a sip of my spicy-sweet tea when Chris grunts beside me, and I glance over at him.

His eyes are closed, head thrown back in ecstasy as he inhales his second slice of dessert. The boy is a veritable garbage disposal with a sweet tooth that could rival Cookie Monster. I’ve seen Brynn bake him a dozen cupcakes only for him to inhale them in under twenty-four hours.

My gaze slides down his chest and my lip curls.Yet somehow, he still has hard pecs and washboard abs. It’s unfair, and I hate him a little more with each bite he crams in his face.

The last bite of cake disappears as he shovels it into his mouth, and when he opens his eyes a moment later, he reaches toward the coffee table for thirds.

“Glutton,” I hiss.

“Ascetic,” Chris snaps back.

I frown at him as he leans back into the leather chair, grinning as he starts in on his third dessert.

Turning so he can’t see me, I set my coffee cup down on the side table, slide my phone from my pocket, and Google “ascetic.”

“A person who practices self-denial. Ascetics may abstain from worldly pleasures, fast, and spend time meditating . . .”

My mouth smashes into a thin line before I glance over at him. “I’ve never meditated a day in my life,” I say with a lift of my chin.

Well, unless you count yoga.

“Maybe you should try it. You’re wound up awfully tight, Lettie.” His gaze dips down my body before he licks his lips, catching a glob of whipped cream. I follow his movements, unnervingly enthralled by his plump, soft pout. “Unless there’s another way you’d like to unwind?” he says, with a wink, snapping me from my disturbing gawking.

“Pah-ha-ha,” I belt out. “In your dreams, Collins,” I mutter under my breath at the same time my father and Barbie finally realize there are other people in the room besides the two of them and turn to face us.

“We’re so glad both of you could be here today,” Barb says, beaming. “We know how demanding your schedules are.”

I shrink a little in my chair. Compared to Chris, I have a wealth of spare time on my hands.

My father reaches out and grabs one of Barb’s hands and squeezes as something unspoken passes between them. “But the truth is I didn’t just want you to meet Barb today, Charlotte. We have some other news we’d like to share.”

My gaze bounces between them, noting the way Barbie squares her shoulders, her blue gaze flitting anxiously from me to her son and back again when it hits me. “Oh god. You’re pregnant,” I blurt.

Barb pales, and my father rears back. “What?” he half-shouts, then runs a hand down his face, muttering a curse. “No!” He waves his hands. “Charlotte, we’re not pregnant.”

The relief at those words is instantaneous. Beside me, Chris runs a hand over the back of his neck, the color returning to his skin, and it makes me feel somewhat better that I’m not the only one relieved.

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