Page 35 of Pucking the Single Dad
Patricia's radar locked onto Brad. She approached with the inevitability of an avalanche, smile widening to show perfect teeth that probably had their own insurance policy.
"There you are." She pressed against him, kiss to each cheek, European-style, fingers splaying across his chest. "I've been hunting you all night."
The hug lasted long enough for me to catalog every point of contact—her breast against his arm, her hand on his neck, the way he didn't pull back.
"How's the knee?" Her fingers traced his thigh with medical authority that looked distinctly unmedicinal. "We should discuss treatment options. Maybe over coffee? Like old times?"
Old times?
"You two know each other well?" I asked, voice bright as broken glass.
Patricia laughed, musical and confident. "Oh, Brad and I go way back. We dated briefly before he met Sarah." She winked at him. "What was it you said—I was too intimidating?"
"You were too focused on your career," Brad corrected. "We both were."
"Well, times change." Her gaze swept over him appreciatively. "We're both in different places now."
The implication hung heavy. I took a sip of wine to avoid saying something I'd regret.
"This is Serena," Brad said, seeming to remember I existed. "She's staying with us while—"
"The storm refugee, yes." Patricia's smile could have frozen vodka. "How generous of Brad to help out during the storm."
"He's been very kind," I managed.
"He always was. Too kind sometimes." She touched his chest, ostensibly straightening his tie. "Remember that conference in Aspen? You spent the entire weekend reading me medical journals in that hot tub, like foreplay for nerds."
They had hot tub foreplay. With medical journals. Of course they did.
"Patricia—" Brad started.
"I'm just reminiscing." She pressed closer. "We should catch up properly. Compare notes on... recovery techniques."
I set my wine down before I threw it. "Excuse me. Bathroom."
I didn't run, but it was close. The bathroom was all marble and inadequacy, my reflection looking exactly like what I was—a boring teacher in a borrowed dress, playing dress-up in a world where women like Patricia existed. Women who saved careers and looked like supermodels and shared hot tub histories with men like Brad.
My hands gripped the marble counter like it could anchor me to reality.He's not yours to claim, I told myself.You have no right to fantasize about Patricia's sudden disappearance into a convenient sinkhole.
"She's basically climbing him like a fire pole." Maria's voice said from my phone screen when I called her from the bathroom.
"She's a doctor who looks like a lingerie model and saves careers for fun," I shot back. "I teach seven-year-olds how to spell 'Wednesday.'"
"You're spiraling."
"I'm being realistic. They have history. Hot tub history. With medical journals."
"That's the least sexy foreplay I've ever heard."
"Maria—"
"Text him. Right now. Say you need him."
"I'm not—"
"It's not manipulation, it's science. Text him you feel sick. Time his response."
I typed it out, hating myself. Twenty-three seconds later—I counted—Brad burst through the bathroom door like the building was on fire.
