Cowboy Baby Daddy

I hate him already.

“Yeah,” he says, acting as if he’s chewing something, which, as far as I can tell, he’s not. “Are you Lily?”

“No,” I tell him. “I’m Leila.”

He leans back and looks at my door as if there’s some kind of useful information posted on it, then he looks back at me.

“I thought the ad said your name was Lily.”

“Well,” I tell him, “it’s not. Would you like to come in?”

He doesn’t answer, but just kind of struts in, his thumbs in his pockets. “Nice place,” he says.

“Yep,” I tell him.

“That’s quite the smell,” he says. “Let me guess: modeling party?”

If it’s a line, it’s about the worst one I’ve ever heard.

“No,” I tell him. “The guy ahead of you seemed to think it necessary to actually bathe in his—what are you doing?”

He’s by the countertop, leafing through the newspaper I haven’t read myself.

“I was out late last night. I was hoping to get a peek at the sports section.”

Yeah, I already hate this guy. Sadly, though, I’m desperate.

I have some money from my modest inheritance, but it wouldn’t last long in a place like this. And this is one of the more reasonably priced apartments in the city.

What I really want is to get a full-time position at the brokerage firm so I can save up for a nice house; you know, somewhere far away from tattooed guy and the one who swims in cologne. I’d try for a place like that now, but I’d much rather get settled into my job before I blow all my money.

“Take it,” I tell him, acting like he’s not being incredibly nosy.

He doesn’t bother looking up from the paper. “That’s all right,” he says. “My team lost.”

For the next few seconds, we just stand there: him, still going through the newspaper, me, pretending I don’t want to chuck something at his head for the impropriety.

“I’m sorry,” he says, finally looking up from the sports section. “I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Dane, Dane Paulson.”

“Leila Tyler,” I say, and hold my hand out to shake his.

He looks at my hand, then turns his head toward the apartment. “So, what is this place: 700, 800 square feet?”

“750. Your room would be over here,” I say and start walking, but he doesn’t move.

“Nah, that’s all right,” he tells me. “I like it. I’ll take it.”

“It’s not that simple. I’ve had a number of interviews and some pretty solid prospects. I’ll need to know what kind of income you bring in, I’ll need to check your references. We haven’t even had our interview—”

“I just moved here, actually. I follow the music.”

A musician: fantastic. Not only would I have to deal with him, I’d have to deal with whatever instrument he can’t really play and all the nonsense catchphrases that go with it.

“Well, it’s been nice meeting you, but I think I have enough—”

“Guitar, mostly,” he says. He stops looking around the apartment like he’s planning a break-in and looks at me for a moment. “Sorry, most people ask what I play when I tell them I’m a musician.”

“Sorry for my lack of etiquette. It’s been very nice meeting you, but—”