Page 21 of Knocked Up by My Dad's Mafia Boss

“Better go to the shallow end before you drown,” I warn her, and she huffs out a breath, making her way closer again.

For the next hour, we play in the pool together.

It’s almost like we’re a real couple, except for the fact that I have to stay in the camera gap. She’s hanging off me like a spider monkey when the sound of a car pulling up makes her spring apart from me like I’m something poisonous.

Every good feeling I had over the last hour or so dissipates.

“Your father insisted on ordering pizza,”

Her eyes widen. “Dante, I didn’t mean–”

“It’s fine.”

It’s not fine. It fucking hurts. I know we aren’t… anything. I know I’m just a rebellious secret for her.

It’s not like she really cares. And this just proves it beyond a shadow of a doubt.

I get out of the pool despite her protests, toweling off and dressing before grabbing the pizza from the front door.

I set it out on the coffee table and she comes walking into the living room. “Get it white it’s hot.”

“Dante. We should talk.”

“Talk about what?”

“About… what just happened back there.”

“Nothing happened.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt?—”

“You didn’t.” My voice is flat but firm. I’m hoping she catches the hint, because there’s no part of me that wants to talk about this. “Eat your pizza.”

She slowly sits down on the floor, eating. I change the television to a mindless action movie and soon enough Samantha is laughing and cheering at the screen. I raise an eyebrow. “You like this movie?”

“It’s a classic action-comedy.”

“It’s a buddy cop movie.”

“I like buddy cop movies.”

“Really?”

“Quit asking me like that. I’m not just some girl who’s only into pumpkin spice or whatever,” she grumbles.

I can’t help but laugh. I’m still annoyed. Not mad at her. She can’t help it. It’s not her fault that she’s off-limits. That I shouldn’t be doing this.

Shouldn’t be sitting here with her, smiling at her as she cackles at the movie.

She heads upstairs to shower after a while and I make a drink, watching some sitcom that autoplayed after the movie. She comes back downstairs in her kitten pajamas. My heart clenches in my chest. “Make me one of those.”

“A scotch?”

“Sure. I drink them with Papa sometimes.”

I put my drink down and stand up, making her one with a ball of ice and handing it to her.

“Thanks.” She sips it, making a face. I chuckle. “It’s been a while,” she says defensively.