Lola Penelope Caruso is my favorite person to torment. When she's had enough of me, her freckled cheeks go rosy, her tiny hands ball into fists, and she pulls at her signature tight braid and lets down her long red hair.

I thought I'd seen her at her worst when we told her she'd have to move from New York City to a dump in Jersey with our law firm. But then a six-year-old showed up at my office with a note around his neck and my smile on his face, and she had to ask: Who's your daddy?

Now annoying her isn't quite as fun.

Apparently my ability to keep plants and fish alive does not mean I'm qualified to raise a child. He's smart and funny, and I'm pretty sure he'll raise me with more success than I can him. Fortunately, we have one thing in common: our infatuation with Lola. Is it possible that she could ever like me as much as she likes him?