Who's Your Daddy? Read Online Free PDF

door hit him in the crack on the way out of the house for good. Thank God he was a senior.
    For once, I didn’t scowl at the testosterone-overloaded atmosphere that typified life with my dad and brothers, nor did I intentionally rebel against everything they believed in. This was my chance. I’d show them all just what a perfect angel I could be, and soon Dad would stop watching me like a felon on parole. If I could really lay the innocent stuff on thick, next Tuesday’s plan would be cake—angel food, of course.
    I strutted into the kitchen and shocked each of my brothers with a kiss on the cheek (except Luke—I gave him a wet willy when my dad’s back was turned, which earned me a backhanded smack in the gut, which earned him my middle finger, and so on), then took my seat and spread my napkin neatly on my lap. I even paid attention to my posture.
    Dad set a bubbling casserole dish on the patrol car—shaped trivets some badge-bunny single mom had made him a couple years ago, in an effort to snare him. The way they chased him was truly gagworthy, let me tell you. I wanted to date, sure, but I made a silent vow that I’d never be THAT desperate for a guy, even if I DID get to be as old as The Moms and remained single.
    TRIVETS?! Please.
    I leaned up and peered into the dish, launching into my
Operation: Lie Low
plan. “Yum,” I said, with a combination of sincerity and enthusiasm. “Looks great, Dad. What is it?”
    My dad blinked twice in my direction, taking his time to answer. The complete one-eighty turnaround in my attitude had clearly thrown him. His gaze narrowed suspiciously. “It’s chicken spaghetti casserole.”
    I didn’t even lecture him about what excessive carbs would do to the body of a man his age. HELLO, LOVE HANDLES! (A scary misnomer, if you ask me.) Instead, I smiled sweetly. “Can I have seconds?”
    He raised one brow in disbelief or doubt, I wasn’t sure which. My brothers had fallen silent during the exchange—which was, admittedly, quite un-ME-like—and they all stared at me with mistrust. I held my breath and prayed none of them would call me on it.
    “You haven’t even had firsts,” Dad said.
    “It just looks
that
good,” I said, in this completely altruistic Mother Teresa tone of voice. I impressed MYSELF, I have to tell you.
    Luke was the first to front me off. He rolled his eyes and launched into these exaggerated gagging sounds. Ikicked him under the table, and he kicked me back. Hard.
    Okay, so I’d laid it on a little thick, I admitted to myself, rubbing the rapidly growing knot on my shin. Still, by the time we’d all been served, the boys had launched into yet another lobotomizing cop conversation about probable cause or the latest chase policy,
blah blah blah
. I peered around unobtrusively, noting that Dad’s focus had already shifted ever so slightly from me to them. One full week of this I’m-a-perfect-naive-Jessica-Simpson-angel schtick, and I’d be off the paternal radar screen completely. It so rocked.
    I took a bite of the casserole—which actually
was
dang yummy—and chewed to hide my smug smile. I hated to boast, but I had this whole gig SO totally bagged. I may not want to follow in Dad’s footsteps like all my cows-in-the-chute brothers had (vomitous thought), but you didn’t grow up as a cop’s daughter without picking up a few stealth-maneuver tricks along the way. If I do say so myself (and I DO), I excelled at stealth, and this week would prove it.
    Next Tuesday night’s escape-the-house plot? No sweat. And, the dumb supper? I was SO there.

three

    My homecoming-night escape was going perfectly according to plan until Luke and Mattress Girl unexpectedly returned to our house just as I was climbing out my window. Murphy’s Law. He must’ve forgotten the dictionary his girlfriend needed in order to understand the most banal of conversations. (
Banal: drearily commonplace and often predictable; trite
. Surely, she could grasp the meaning of