by Max Monroe
He’d really pulled a fast one on me last night. Somehow, directing the conversation in a way that ended in me having to see him twice in a twenty-four-hour period.
“I’d love if you accompanied me, Harlow.”
Asshole. I groaned out loud as I replayed his words.
“It’s a date.”
Fucking hell. I had a date with the devil, otherwise known as Scott assface Shepard.
Although, he does have quite an attractive face and one hell of a tight ass…
Oh God. Get it together, Harlow! Do not think good thoughts about the enemy!
Was I really mentally sparring with myself right now because of a cocky bastard of a man?
Sigh.
Where had my life gone wrong? And how did I keep ending up with these awful dates?
Double sigh.
As a realist—my friend Amanda would argue I’m more pessimist, but she’s a French-frolicking traitor right now—my outlook on tonight was the opposite of good. I mean, if Barron the Bore landed me in the ER after what was supposed to be a simple night of dinner, what did Dr. Erotic have the power to do?
Maybe give us a real orgasm, my vagina chimed in.
Shut up, Vagina. You’re the one who got me in trouble with Barron in the first place.
Another cursory glance at the clock made me wince.
Shit! How is it twelve fifteen now? I’ve done nothing!
I forced my focus away from mentally flipping off Scott Shepard and read through my notes on various column ideas for the fifteenth time. I groaned. I needed something better than which Hemsworth brother looked better naked. Sure, those Aussies were the apples of a lot of women’s eyes—including my own because, hello? Have you seen Thor?—but I wanted and needed something with substance versus the trite, cliché crap that filled most gossip-based columns. I wasn’t going for the next Great American Novel, but something better than which Kardashian had the biggest ass wouldn’t be off base.
Hmm. Maybe I can do an article about which Hemsworth has the biggest ass…
Before I could brainstorm more ideas—as I desperately needed to—my phone buzzed with a text message. I sighed in annoyance. I knew who it was before I even checked the screen.
Dad: Which shirt should I wear?
He’d been at it all day with the text messages. Five messages ago, it was which shoes. Ten messages ago, it was hairstyle, which was ridiculous because my dad was partially balding. The hairstyle question had all of one option—the same fucking hairstyle he’d been sporting for the past twenty years.
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out from the one million text messages that Bill Paige was bristling with anxious energy because of that stupid anniversary party Nicole Shepard had invited him to. And, yeah, with Scott’s underhanded trickery, I’d gotten dragged into the shindig as well.
Although, ironically, it had appeared that my dad was trying to play matchmaker last night at Mustang’s and set me up with a man who had been dubbed Dr. Erotic. So it wasn’t like Scott hadn’t had any help.
I made a mental note to ask my dad if he’d ever seen Scott’s show. I had a feeling he didn’t really know the kind of reputation that man had built for himself. Unless you were Hugh Hefner, it wasn’t exactly the norm to spend your nights out surrounded by twenty-something popstars and busty swimsuit models.
Needless to say, it felt like I was going on some kind of weird double date with my father. And it only felt weirder when I thought about the fact that our pseudo-dates were mother and son. This was some serious Jerry Springer kind of shit. But if I was being honest, there was a small part of me—the columnist side—that secretly wanted to go. My readers had shown a huge interest in the pieces I’d written about Dr. Erotic, and I was praying tonight I’d discover even more dirt to dish.
My phone buzzed with yet another text message from my father.
Dad: Hello? Low? I need help here. Which shirt should I wear?
I smiled at his impatience and looked through the numerous picture messages he’d sent. All of them were the same exact collared, long-sleeved, button-up dress shirt, just different colors—lilac, sky blue, black, white, and about ten other color options.
Bill Paige, back in the game. If I weren’t trying to fit in a little writing time for Monday’s column, I’d find it more adorable than annoying.
Me: The blue one. It brings out your eyes.
My dad had a killer set of blue eyes I’d spent half my life watching women react to shamelessly. He just never reacted back. I honestly wasn’t even sure if he knew the effect he had on the opposite sex, but tonight, once I finished up this column, I’d do my best to make damn sure he had the confidence boost he needed to be ready for a night of schmoozing Nicole Shepard.
Dad: Will you come over a little early and help me get ready?
Me: I thought that’s what we were doing with all of these text messages?
Dad: Low.
Me: Fine. But I need to finish this column first.
Dad: Can you get here by 4?
Me: That’s 3 hours before the party, Dad. That seems like way more time than we need. Unless you’re wanting me to do your nails before we go…
Dad: Shit. Do you think I need to get a manicure?
Good Lord, he was nervous. Even too amped up to realize I was being a total smartass and teasing him. As I started to type out another text message, I silently wondered if I should lay off the sarcasm and give him a break.
Nah.
Me: When’s the last time you had one?
Dad: I’ve never had one. God, is that bad?
He was proverbially crawling up the walls over this party tonight. The thought made me laugh, so I typed out a message.
Me: Will I find claw marks on your walls like in Jurassic World when I get over there?
Dad: What? No.
Me: Then, no. You don’t need a fucking manicure, Dad. Just take a breath and relax. Everything will be great. I promise.
Dad: This is nerve-racking. Is this what dating is always like?
Well, sometimes it’s a lot fucking worse, I thought to myself. Especially when your date has a bed made out of shards of glass.
Me: Sometimes, but considering it’s been like thirty years since you went on a date… I think it’s safe to say you’re a little more nervous than most.
Dad: Goddammit, Low. Don’t remind me.
Me: LOL. Relax, Pops. Everything will be perfect. I’ll come over in a little bit and make sure you’re looking like a silver fox. Nicole will be putty in your hands.
Dad: Silver fox??? I don’t have that much gray hair, Low!
Before I could explain that silver fox was actually a good thing—a simple saying referring to handsome older men—he fired off another panicked message.
Dad: Do you think I need to dye the gray out of my hair before the party?
Help. Me. It was only half past noon, and my dad had already considered getting a manicure and dyeing his hair. This was going to be one long fucking day…
Me: Silver fox = Handsome and distinguished older man.
Dad: So it’s a good thing?
Jesus Christ.
Me: Yes. It’s the nice way of saying sexy. But I refuse to use that word in the same sentence in which I’m talking about my father.
Dad: Do you think Nicole thinks I’m a silver fox?
Me: Yes. And before you ask me anything else, I’m ending this conversation because it is about to reach awkward places. Call Mom or Jean-Pierre if you want to continue it further.
Dad: Love you, Low.
Me: Love you too, Dad.
I set my phone back on the table and prepared to dive back into work, but my phone buzzed again with a message.
Dad: See you at 3?
Me: I thought you said 4?
Dad: No, I said 3.
I loved my dad, but holy hell, he was driving me crazy.
Me: Dad. I can scroll back through the messages and see that you said 4. So, yes, I’ll see you
at 4. Now, leave me alone until then so I can work for a little bit.
Dad: Do you want me to help you pick out your outfit for tonight, sweetheart?
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
Me: I’m fine, Dad. I’ve got it.
Dad: Are you sure? I think it might be good if you wear that cute pink dress with the white bow.
Me: You mean the same dress I wore at my high school graduation?
Dad: Was it that long ago?
Me: Uh, yeah. And since I’m 29, I’m pretty sure I no longer have that dress.
Dad: What about the purple dress with the ruffly things at the bottom?
Holy hell. Now he was referring to my junior prom dress.
Me: Bye, Dad.
Before he could send back any more texts, I turned my phone off. A daughter could only handle so much of helping her father get ready for a date.
I was also going to be attending my father’s date, as the date for his date’s son—who also happened to be a man I pretty much despised.
Good Lord, tonight is probably going to be a clusterfuck of epic proportions.
“They’ll be here soon,” I told my mom as she paced a tiny two-foot line in front of me, doing her best to wear a hole through the floor of Tavern on Park, the quaint but opulent banquet hall.
My dad and Linda were already out and mingling, and hors d’oeuvres passed every few moments on silver trays. They’d gone all out for their fifteen-year celebration, and I didn’t blame them. Linda and my father were the perfect couple my mom and dad had never been. A yin and yang of sorts, but quiet and loving—two qualities my parents together had never been.
Still, my mom was a woman scorned, even if she knew she wasn’t right for my dad and that he wasn’t right for her. I personally think she’d just wanted to be the person to leave rather than the one to be left. But after nearly two decades, the facts weren’t changing.
“We should have picked them up.”
“Mom, this is New York. Picking people up is nice and all, but it’s about ten times the trouble. They wanted to meet us here. They’ll be here soon.”
“Fine,” she grumbled. “I just wanted to shock Linda.”
I nodded. I knew that’s what she wanted.
“Of course, you ruined it anyway.” She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes to emphasize how unhappy with me she was.
“Mom, I had to tell Linda we were bringing people. Don’t you want our dates to have chairs to sit in? That’d be kind of awkward, wouldn’t it?”
She clamped her mouth shut and shot lasers out of her eyes—her standard move for knowing I was right but not wanting to admit it. Obviously, I came by my stubbornness naturally.
“But if it makes you feel any better, the additions were so last-minute, the venue is probably making them pay out the nose. They like to have a head count further in advance than this,” I consoled, hoping to diffuse the situation rather than escalate it.
She shrugged. “That does make me feel slightly better, thank you.”
I laughed. “You’re welcome.”
I lifted my eyes from my mother to the door, and all laughter cut off abruptly as the air left my lungs.
Holy shit. Struggling to compose myself, I patted at the button of my suit coat and then lifted my hands to straighten my already straight tie. My mom noticed my fumbling and turned to look.
With soft curled hair, tucked behind one ear, and plum-red lips, Harlow was stunning. Her eyes skated up from the ground to meet mine and caught.
I didn’t know exactly what I looked like, but I knew it wasn’t collected. Transfixed, maybe. The sleek, tanned skin of a stiletto-tipped leg winked at me from the thigh-high split in her long black dress, and the deep V in the front went nearly to her navel. And still, somehow, I’d never seen a more classically beautiful woman. She didn’t look cheap or like she was trying too hard.
She looked goddamn breathtaking.
I watched, immobile, as she crossed the room to me like she was floating. She was graceful and composed, and Christ, I felt like we were the only two people in the room.
“Hi, Harlow,” I greeted softly when she made it to me.
“Hi, Scott,” she whispered back.
Like it had a mind of its own, my hand started to move, toward her arm, her shoulder, something—just anything to feel my skin on her skin.
“Your beard looks like it’s eating your face alive. I thought you’d at least shave for a fancy shindig like this,” she commented, and thank God, really. The derisive note in her voice was the only thing that made room for my sanity to return. I shook off my episode of fascination and focused on what we did best—laying carefully concealed barbs within normal conversation and amusing one another.
“It’s a Beards for Babies thing that Will Cummings is doing.”
“Will Cummings? You mean, Dr. Obscene?”
I shook my head as a bark of laughter escaped my throat. “You know, he’d just love to know you’re more familiar with his nickname than his real name. Truly, he’d be honored.”
“I take it he doesn’t covet the celeb life quite as much as you, Dr. Erotic?”
“No, he doesn’t.” My eyes narrowed. “That’s why you’re going to keep him out of the limelight, right?”
“Hey, I’m just—”
“An opportunist.”
With a perfectly manicured hand to her chest, she feigned discomfort. “You wound me.”
“Bullshit. You’re not offended in the slightest. And you shouldn’t be. I, for one, find it blindingly attractive.”
She rolled her eyes.
“But keep the stories to me, okay? Leave the other two alone.”
“Ohh,” she cooed, her eyes lighting up. “I’d almost forgotten about the third. What’s his name? What’s his deal? When do his episodes air?”
“Harlow.”
“What? I’m just trying to be informed.”
“He’s got a kid. Drop it.”
“Wow, a beard for the babies and defensiveness for the child of the third mysterious doctor of The Doctor Is In. Are kids a weakness for you, Scott?”
“Yes. They are. And quite frankly, they should be for everyone.”
Her face softened ever so slightly. Not enough to change the shape, and not enough to make me step closer, but enough to know she didn’t have a heart of stone locked in there behind all that armor.
“Shall we?” I asked, offering her my elbow as the band music softened and they instructed everyone to make their way to their seats.
She looked at my arm closely for several moments before taking it, and I noticed for the first time that my mother had moved on to Bill. I’d completely forgotten about her. Does that make me a shitty son?
“So what’s the deal with your parents?” Harlow asked as we walked, securing my full attention once again. “I told you about mine.”
I nodded and pulled her in closer so I could whisper. God, she smells good.
“Ah, yes. Nicole and Tanner Shepard divorced when I was seventeen years old after nearly twenty years of unhappy marriage. They both knew they weren’t meant for each other probably five years in, but I was a toddler. And while my mom is the stubbornest woman on the planet, my dad is the nicest man. No way he was going to leave her and me during those formidable years. When they finally separated, my mom held a grudge. Still does, quite frankly. But not because she actually loves him or anything.”
“Kind of like a kid with a toy?”
“Exactly like that,” I agreed. “Anyway, he met Linda a couple years later, and they married nearly immediately. Now, they are soul mates. The real, written-in-the-stars kind. Somehow, they manage passion without disagreement. I hadn’t even thought that was possible until the two of them.”
“Wow.”
I nodded, pulling out her chair for her. Her eyes followed me over her shoulder. I was nearly lost in them again when my dad’s voice rang out through the microphone. “Scott, could you sit down, son?”
The whole audie
nce of partygoers laughed as I gave him a wave, shook off the lusty power of Harlow’s eyes, and tucked myself into my seat.
“Thanks, Dr. Erotic,” my dad commented. Once again, the crowd laughed. Even Harlow.
“Yeah, yeah,” I grumbled with a shake of my head. I never lost my smile, though. Only parents like mine could find ways to tease about something like this rather than criticize. They were both my biggest supporters—no matter what.
“My son, everyone,” my dad boasted proudly.
See?
“Linda, honey,” he called, shielding his eyes from the light so he could find her. “Can you come up here?” The spotlight found her greeting guests at a table across the room and followed her as she made her way to my dad with a sweet blush on her face.
As soon as she was within touching distance, he pulled her close with an arm around her waist and placed a kiss on her cheek. The room let out a collective sigh as they looked on. Normally, my mom would have had some kind of smart comment, so I turned briefly to get a read on her, but she was too busy whispering quiet words with Bill in their seats across the table.
I smiled. Maybe the time Nicole Shepard let it all go had finally come.
I returned my attention back to the front to listen as my dad spoke. “I just want to thank everyone for coming tonight.” He turned to his wife to address her directly. “Linda, we’ve only been married for fifteen short years, and they’ve absolutely flown by. Every year, I think maybe I’ll finally feel like it’s enough, like I’ve had a satisfying amount of time with you, but every year I get hungrier. It’ll never be enough. Even at sixty years, I’ll be wishing for sixty more. I love you.”