Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Will my date be gangster or Gatsby in his navy suspenders? That tease of a man only told me one piece of his costume. I picture him in a vintage suit, shedding his jacket, his suspenders, then asking me to ride his cock.
Yes, sir.
But best to bleach those images away for the next few hours as I enter my father’s office building. He’s a former cop who went to law school several years ago and is now a corporate attorney.
On the way up in the elevator, I mentally review the evening ahead with my dad. What I want to talk about over dinner. The things in my life I’ll share with him.
Hmm. That’d be work, work, and more work. So much better than talking about the day we all went to grief counseling after Willa’s death.
I shudder, then slam the door on those terrible memories.
When I reach his floor, I smile at the firm’s receptionist. “Hi, Anita.” She knows me since I see him for dinner regularly.
“Hello, Jules. Tate’s just finishing up with a friend, but he said you can go in anytime.”
“Sweet,” I say, then I run a hand down my twin-set sweater. It’s short-sleeved and mint green with an embroidered cherry on the front. Very mod and vintage—perfect for the TV biz with its artsy vibe. I paired it with a black pencil skirt, and I have my glasses on. I like to wear them at work and save my contacts for going out and for friends.
I head down the hall to my dad’s office, but when I near it, something stops me.
A voice.
And it’s not my dad’s.
A dart of worry pricks my chest as I listen to the next thing the man with my father says. “Saturday morning? I don’t think so, Tate,” he says in a deep, raspy tone that makes me shiver.
Which concerns me.
Because…I should not be shivering at my dad’s office.
Maybe I’m hearing things. Maybe this is a new symptom of my OCD. I walk cartoon-character slow, keyed in on the voice.
“Oh, c’mon. You’re going to slack off?” my father goads, but he’s clearly baiting the guy in a buddy sort of way.
“Yeah, I’m a slacker,” the man says dryly, and my shoulders tighten with worry.
“Better not be. We have that bet with the other triathlon team.”
“Well, I’d hate to lose,” he says.
“Perfect. Then I’ll see you this Saturday at the crack of dawn so we can kill it,” my father says in a lighter tone than he ever takes with me. I tiptoe closer now, a few feet from the open door. They can’t see me, and none of the paralegals or lawyers are walking down the hall. The office is half-empty at this time of the evening.
“Appreciate the hard sell, but not this Saturday,” his friend says, drawing a line in the sand.
My heart climbs up my throat uncomfortably. No, please, no. Just let them sound similar.
“I guess someone has a fun Friday night planned,” my dad says, a little too dude-bro for my tastes. I picture my dad lifting his eyebrows, asking what’s on tap for tomorrow night. Gross.
“We’ll see,” the man hedges, but I can hear the smile in his voice.
In it is the echo of other words. Words like…Open wide. Need to fuck that pretty mouth.
And…I want you to come again. On me.
I want to scream. This can’t be happening. My father’s running partner—the guy he does triathlons with—can’t be my phantom, my Gatsby, my Friday night secret date.
I draw a deep but quiet breath, then take one more step.
“You better show up Sunday morning, then,” my dad says.
“You do know when we win that bet, it’ll be because of me,” the man counters.
That voice.
“Fucking show-off,” my dad says with a friendly scoff.
“It’s not showing off if it’s true,” the man says.
I wish my OCD brain was playing the meanest trick on me with some new and awful intrusive thought. But I know it’s not. Still, I need to be sure if it’s really him. If I just peer carefully into the doorway, I can see most of Dad’s desk, but he won’t be able to see me.
Praying I’m mistaken, I peer carefully into the office. My father sits at his desk, cracking a rare smile as he chats with the man across from him.
In slow-mo, like I’m watching through horror-movie fingers, I turn.
I. Die.
I roll my lips together, sealing up all my screams. That jawline covered in scruff. That hair, thick and brown, with a few silver streaks. Those broad shoulders.
I’d know that half profile anywhere.
Even though I only saw him in the dark, that’s the man I kissed at the masquerade. The man who made me come hard by the books.
The man whose cock I sucked good and thorough…is my father’s best friend.
Finn Adams.
I swivel around, race-walk down the hall, then duck into the ladies’ room.