Page 27 of Knocked Up by My Dad's Mafia Boss

Babysitting. Right.How hard can it be?

I resist the urge to hole up in my room, knowing how crafty Samantha can be. She nearly slipped away from me the night of the party.

Not that I’ll ever let her know how close she was to freedom.

I camp out downstairs on the sectional couch, flipping on some reality television show on in the background, one of those competition ones. It takes a couple hours for Samantha to traipse downstairs in a too-tight shift dress that hugs all her curves and barely covers her ass.

Jesus fucking Christ.She’s going to be the death of me.

I don’t look at her.

“Don’t tell me you like this show.”

“It’s not bad.”

I don’t have strong feelings about it one way or the other, but at least this makes conversation while I’m fighting the urge to stare at her ass.

“Wouldn’t have pegged you as a reality tv show watcher.”

“I don’t watch much television. Don’t own one.”

She looks at me, dark eyes widening. “Youdon’t? It’s the twenty-first century, you know.”

I chuckle. “Yeah, yeah. Make some more old jokes.”

“Over the hill.”

“Way over.” I pause, glancing at her. “It’s all downhill after twenty-five. You’ll see.”

She grins. “Well, I’ve got eight months to live it up, then.”

I snort out a laugh. “Yeah, something like that.”

“I usually watch dramas,” she admits.

“Oh, those really melodramatic ones?”

She chuckles.”Yeah. I like it when their lives are more dramatic than mine. Makes me feel better, you know?”

I tilt my head. “Not exactly.”

She lets out a breath. “You know, like watching someone be more messy than you makes you feel better about your own messy life.”

“Do you have a messy life?”

She glares at me. “What do you think?”

I go quiet. She shifts on the couch, curling her thick legs up under her. My eye travels the line of her thigh, the curve of her ass.

Fuck.

“You could wear some clothes that fit, every once in a while.” The words come out before I can stop them.

She turns to me, smirking. “You don’t like this dress?”

“It’s not about liking it.”

“Then what is it about, Mr. Bianchi?”