Pretty Playboy

‘Anyway, I was wrong,’ the boy said. ‘And I would like to apologise. How about dinner? It’s on me.’ ‘It’s eight-thirty in the morning,’ I pointed out. ‘Then breakfast.’ He flashed me a winsome smile. ‘Come on, it’s just one meal.’ I returned his smile. I had to hand it to him, he was a difficult person to hate. He had a nice-looking face, more beautiful than handsome. His eyes, when not filled with lust, were bright and big and guileless. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Some of us have to work for a living. Rain check?’ I got into my car and drove away. If he were five years older, I would not have minded having a little fling with the pretty playboy with a discerning taste in cars but a trashy taste in clothes. I caught his movement in the rearview mirror. ‘You didn’t leave your number! And your name!’ he shouted, brandishing his 18K Rose Gold iPhone 13 Pro. I shook my head. What a cute little boy. He would do much better with someone his own age. But, if I had to be honest, it was flattering to ha