Which isn’t too far off the mark, I guess.

Then I notice the T-shirt folded at the end of the bed, placed beside my clothes. Gray with bright yellow writing: Sunshine, Mississippi.

Thoughtful.

I pick it up and guiltily press the cotton against my face, inhaling deeply. It smells predominantly of fabric softener, but there’s the detectable trace of Stanton hidden in its threads.

I shake my head. Eye on the prize, Sofia. And no matter what my clitoris might believe, the prize is not Stanton Shaw’s glorious, golden penis.

I pull my hair up into a ponytail. I shove my ruined blouse and jacket into my purse, thanking the fashion gods that big bags are in style. Then I give myself the once-over in Stanton’s dresser mirror. Tired eyes, hair that even in a ponytail sticks out like wings on my head, a gray T-shirt that reaches to my hips with a tweed pencil skirt peeking out from beneath it.

This is why they call it the walk of shame.

Steeling myself, I open the door and step down the hall.

He’s at the kitchen table, shirtless in navy-blue sweats, his tousled blond hair annoyingly sexy. He’s Skyping on his laptop. Judging from his almost empty coffee cup, it seems like he’s been Skyping for a while. He meets my eyes with a welcoming smile and points to the pot of coffee on the counter. A silent offering I eagerly accept.

Though the screen is facing away from me, the young girl’s voice that emanates from the speakers tells me exactly whom he’s speaking to.

“. . . and then Ethan Fortenbury said I had man hands.”

Stanton looks at the screen, his brow wrinkled with consternation. “Man hands? Well that wasn’t very nice of Ethan Fortenbury.”

Maybe it’s just because I know who he’s talking to, but his voice sounds lower, smoother—calm and protective. I could listen to him talk like this all day.

I hear the crunch of cereal being chewed, and then she answers, “No, he’s not nice, Daddy. I’d like to call him a jackass, but Momma said that’s impolite, so instead I call him a horse’s anus—because he is.”

Stanton laughs.

And Jake walks into the kitchen, dressed for the day, wearing jeans and a blue button-down shirt. He passes behind Stanton’s chair, glancing into the screen.

“Hey, Jake!” the happy voice squeals.

He gives her a rare grin. “Good morning, Sunshine.” Stanton says Jake calls Presley Sunshine because that’s where she’s from . . . and because that’s what she is.

Jake joins me at the counter, pouring himself a cup of black coffee and looking me up and down. “Nice outfit.”

I stick my tongue out at him.

A lithe, leggy blonde comes striding out of Jake’s room, looking better in a camel-colored dress and matching shoes than any woman has the right to after a late night of drinking and sex.

Loud sex.

She barely glances Jake’s way as she heads for the door. “Bye.”

Jake appears equally invested. “See ya around.”

I take another sip of my dark morning drug. “She seems pleasant.”

He chuckles. “She showed herself out. Definitely pleasant in my book—I might even see her again.”

With that, Jake takes his coffee mug and retreats back from whence he came.

“So what happened next with Ethan Fortenbury?” Stanton asks his daughter.

“Oh! I told him if he didn’t stop pickin’ on me, I was gonna wrap my man hands around his throat. He hasn’t bothered me since.”

The rumble of laughter from Stanton is low and smooth and brimming with pride. “That’s my girl.”

“I gotta go find my sneakers for practice, Daddy. Here’s Momma. Mwah! I love you!”

Stanton blows a kiss to the screen. “I love you too, baby girl.”

And it’s possible my panties just disintegrated. A not-unpleasant ache throbs in my womb—a sudden, passionate desire to procreate with this man. It’s purely instinctual, evolutionary, and thankfully I think with my brain, not my ovaries. But I have to admit . . . it’s not easy.

I sip my coffee as the voice from the speakers changes—more mature but still heavily accented. “Mornin’, Stanton.”

“Mornin’, darlin’. ”

“So . . . there’s somethin’ . . .” There’s a nervous-sounding pause, and then she begins again. “Somethin’ I’ve been meanin’ to talk to you about . . .”

With my thumb over my shoulder, I gesture to Stanton that I’m going to catch a cab home.

He holds up a pausing finger. “Jenny, could you hold on for one second?”

He closes the laptop. “Don’t take a taxi home, Soph, I’ll drive you.”

I brush him off with the wave of my hand. “No, you’re busy—it’s not a big deal.”

“It’s a big deal to me. Just wait—I’ll be done in two minutes.”

Then he returns to Jenny. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

She hesitates. “Is now a bad time, Stanton?”

“No,” he reassures her. “Now’s fine—a friend just needs a ride home. Go ahead and tell me your news.”

He waits. And I swear I hear her take a big breath . . . right before she chickens out.

“You know what? It can wait . . . you have company . . . I have to get Presley to practice.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, it’s all right,” she insists. “I’ll . . . um . . . I’ll call you later. It’s not . . . it’s nothin’ urgent.”

His eyes darken with uncertainty. But he still replies, “All right. Have a good day, then.”