Age Gap Romance: Best of Penny Wylder

by Penny Wylder

  Dad snorts. But he doesn’t disagree, which is at least a start. “I haven’t heard any complaints about you lately,” he says after a while, musingly.

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Did you have many before?” I can’t resist asking.

  “Only from your coworkers, complaints that your schedule was too light, like you told me.”

  My face flushes. People actually officially complained about that, too? I knew they were annoyed at me, but damn. I shift in my seat and glare out my window. “Yeah, well, whose fault is that?”

  Dad just grunts noncommittally under his breath. Figures. He’s big on me having to take blame for all of my actions, but god forbid anyone ask him to do the same. After a few more lane changes, Dad changes the subject, talking about some of the new hires in the surgical wing. Still, it makes me wonder.

  Is he finally thinking about reinstating me fully? He’s given me a few more patients along the way, but I’d need to almost double my rounds to have a full roster. At the moment, the small workload has made it easy for me to sneak away and visit Russ more often, true. But I’d rather just be allowed to do my actual job here, since Dad is obsessed with making sure I stay in this city and in this position anyway.

  Russ’s words echo in my mind, not for the first time since he said them. What’s the real reason you haven’t pursued your dreams? He’s right. Dad’s disapproval is an excuse. Indebted to him or not, I am a grown ass adult. I can do what I want, with or without his say-so.

  When am I going to just bite the bullet and do what I’ve been longing to for years? There will be consequences. Blowback. But still…

  I swallow around a lump in my throat and mumble something in response to Dad’s complaints. All the while, I fix my gaze out the window, focused on the road ahead. On home.

  I’m not going to change my whole life today. If I’m going to do this, I need a plan in place. I need to have my ducks in order and know exactly how I’m going to tackle the issue.

  In the meantime, there’s a whole other terrible idea waiting for me on the other end of that text message. I’ve seen Russ a couple times since the soup kitchen day, but just for quickies here and there—a hot and dirty make out session in the supply closet before someone walked way too close and startled us into leaving before we could finish. Then our meetup in the on call room late last night, where Russ pinned me against the wall and knelt to go down on me, practically almost before I’d even shut the door behind us.

  But we haven’t had any quality time since the soup kitchen. We haven’t had a chance to actually talk, and my whole body is craving that. The opportunity to be near him. To touch him without worrying someone will interrupt in another instant. To savor our time together instead of hurrying through it.

  By the time Dad finally pulls into the driveway at home, it feels like my entire body is itching with anticipation. I practically fly out of the door the second Dad parks, so quickly that he actually calls after me. “Where’s the fire?”

  “Forgot I’m supposed to meet a friend later,” I call back, already halfway up the front steps into the house. Once in my bedroom, safely hidden from prying eyes, I open my texts again. Yes, I’m free tonight. What did you have in mind?

  Meet me here? Russ replies almost instantly—of course, since he doesn’t need to sneak around and hide from parental figures in order to text me. Along with his text, he sends a link to a google map page.

  Another soup kitchen? I reply, with a winking emoji to show him I’m up for it. Because we did have fun last time, and Russ was right. Helping other people helped me, too.

  Not quite, he says, however, an instant later. Wear that little black dress you wore at the friendsgiving party last year, he adds, which makes me full-body blush all the way from head to toe. I know exactly which dress he means, but this is a reminder that Russ was noticing me, remembering things like the dresses I wore, for just as long as I’d been thinking about him.

  If I shut my eyes, I can still picture what he wore that night. My parents threw their annual friendsgiving party, the same way they did every year, a week before Thanksgiving itself. Russ showed up in a three piece suit, all black, the kind of formalwear that took my breath away on anyone even remotely cute, let alone an older man as hot as Russ. My mom had even teased him for taking the party so seriously—though he was quick to point out (correctly) that the invitation did mention formal clothing.

  I wonder if he’ll be going that level of dressed up for wherever this direction link leads us. I reply to let him know I’ll see him soon, and then I get to work. I do still have that little black dress, but I’ve acquired an even cuter one, recently, from a cute vintage shop by my old apartment downtown. It’s simple yet elegant, an A-line dress with a slightly flared hem, and a scoop-neck top. I pair it with sparkling high heels—not actually high, but just a few inches to give my calves the definition heels always add. They’re still low enough I can walk in them, which is the main thing in this city.

  To top it off, I do my hair half up, half down, fluffing it out to make the waves curl with a little more definition. I keep my makeup simple, except for some ruby red lipstick. Red lips are great, because they mask anything else that might be going on with your face. Everyone is too busy staring at the cute lips to notice if you have a blemish on the side of your nose or anything.

  When I check the mirror a half an hour later, I grin at myself. I look good. Really good. It feels nice to dress up, because I normally don’t. I’m a casual scrubs and jeans kinda girl. But the change can be fun every now and then. It’s nice to feel girly.

  I grab a leather coat rather than my usual enormous winter one, and toss a cross-body bag over my shoulder. One of my cute little bright red ones that pretty much only holds my phone, a subway card and a credit card. Not that Russ will let me pay when we go out together—he won’t even let me buy us lunch in the work cafeteria, the couple times we’ve dared to eat together down there. But still, I bring it just in case, along with an ID. I wonder if I’ll need anything else. But I figure Russ would have told me if we were doing something off the beaten path that required special supplies.

  I just hope we aren’t really going to a soup kitchen again, or I’m going to be obnoxiously overdressed for the occasion.

  Still smiling at the thought of last time we met up like this, I troop downstairs, only to find my mother in the kitchen, in the middle of mixing up her and Dad’s usual post-work cocktails—Manhattans with a cherry on top. She eyes me, then does a double-take, her eyebrows rising. “Someone’s all dolled up.”

  My cheeks flush a warning pink. “Meeting up with some friends.”

  “Some friends?” Mom’s eyes narrow knowingly. “Or one special friend in particular?”

  I force myself to laugh lightheartedly, despite the jolt of panic that floods my veins. “What are you talking about?”

  She shrugs, a look of pretend innocence on her face that I’m not buying for a second. Anyone who knows my mother would recognize this as her None of my business, but… expression. “I’ve just seen you texting a lot lately. And you get this little half-smile on your face when you do, like you’re daydreaming…”

  Damn. I thought I was being careful. So much for subtlety. I’ll need to be more cautious about when I text Russ in the future, if I want to keep this up. “Nobody special,” I say aloud, not allowing my smile to slip. “Just been in a good mood lately.”

  “That’s good.” Mom’s expression goes a little serious, and she checks over her shoulder. Looking for Dad, I realize. When she speaks again, her voice is a little softer. “I was worried when you started at the hospital. Because I know you and your father don’t always see eye-to-eye on things there…”

  “Still don’t,” I admit with a faint grimace. “But it’s getting more bearable.”

  “Well, good.” Mom’s smile softens as she watches me. “He cares about you, honey. And he wants you to be successful and have a great career like his.” Her expression turns
a little sly. “But your father doesn’t know everything. Sometimes you need to stand up to him to show him who you really are.”

  I watch her turn back to her drink shakers, my mind reeling. Your father doesn’t know everything. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Mom talk like that about him. Of course, she’s always been the only person in the world who Dad actually listens to, instead of just talking bullheadedly to prove his own opinion.

  Maybe that’s how she came to be. Because she forced him to recognize that her opinion counted, too.

  Can I do the same?

  “Thanks, Mom,” I say absently, as I start toward the door, mulling her words over. She just waves at me with a shake of her head, and tells me to have fun with my friends tonight. If only she knew it wasn’t my friends I’m about to have fun with, but hers.

  I push the thought from my mind, less some of my guilt shows on my face. If it weren’t for Dad, I probably would tell Mom about Russ and me. But my parents share everything, and even my free-spirited, fun-loving mother might react weirdly to me dating someone her age. I can’t be sure, and I’m too nervous to even think about trying it.

  No, we need to remain a secret. If not for my sake, then for Russ’s, who has to keep his job at Dad’s hospital.

  Outside, the winter wind bites through my light leather jacket almost immediately. I scurry toward the nearest subway, cursing myself for not wearing a thicker, albeit uglier, coat. Or at the very least, some boots, even though they wouldn’t go with this dress at all.

  Finally, I slip into the subway station, where a blast of warm air hits me straight in the face. In the summer, the stations are abysmal, but in the winter months I do appreciate the heat, even if it comes with a whole host of not great smelling side scents.

  My parents never take the subway, not since Dad bought his car. But as a broke student, I got used to it. Now I almost prefer it. At least there’s never traffic, even if the MTA sometimes (okay, most of the time) messes up the schedules and changes the tracks for construction all the time.

  The address Russ gave me isn’t too far away though, a straight shot from here down to Chelsea. And I arrive in the station just in time to catch an express train. I hop onto it and take a seat as we speed downtown, trying to guess where we might be headed.

  I could have just googled the address he sent me, but where would be the fun in that? Last time I was pleasantly surprised by where we ended up. I have a feeling tonight could be the same.

  So I resist the urge to cheat, and I show up to our date half an hour later, completely unprepared. I follow the map directions out of the subway station and a couple blocks over, only to find myself standing outside the doors of a high-rise. I stare up at it, my jaw falling open. Does Russ live here? I realize I’ve never been over to his house, although I’ve heard him talk about having a place downtown. Does Chelsea count as downtown? I’m never sure where the line lives exactly.

  As I’m gazing up at the building, a warm hand comes to rest on the small of my back, and someone leans down close to my ear. “New dress, hmm? I like this one even better.”

  Just the sound of Russ’s low, baritone voice is enough to warm my blood and set my heart skipping in my chest. I smile, without even meaning to. It’s automatic whenever he’s close to me—and he’s very close now, his hand warm through the thin fabric of my dress, his breath a hot tickle against my earlobe.

  I turn to face him, and his eyes light up when they meet mine. He sweeps an appreciative look over me, his smile widening as he takes in every inch of me.

  “Maybe it’s just me, but I could swear you get sexier every time I see you,” he says, leaning down, one finger reaching up to crook under my chin, so he tilts my face toward his.

  “What do they say? Like a fine wine, I just get better with age,” I reply, a grin on my face.

  Then his lips find mine, and I’m too distracted to think up more witty comebacks. I sink into him, let his lips part mine, his mouth hot and firm where mine is soft, supple. He cradles my face between his hands like I’m something fragile, a delicate flower he doesn’t want to hurt.

  I love that. But I love it when he’s rough even more. I nip at his lower lip, and he chuckles into our kiss, his voice going low and gravelly when he draws back to respond.

  “Don’t get me too excited, too soon, Maggie, or we’ll have to skip this entire date.”

  My breath stops in my chest at the way he looks at me then. Like he’d like nothing better than to pull me into a dark corner and have me, right here and now. I recognize the look. He’s worn it often enough in the hospital corridors, right before he does just that.

  “Is the date visiting your apartment?” I ask, crooking one eyebrow as I glance back at the building next to us.

  He chuckles and loops an arm around my waist, turning me toward the double doors. “I live in Soho. This is just a visit to a friend I’d like you to meet.”

  At the word friend, my feet stutter in my kitten heels, so much that I have to reach up to brace myself against Russ’s shoulder to stay on my feet. “Um… is that a good idea?” I ask, forcing my legs to start working again, as I follow him into the building.

  The doorman in the corner waves and tells us to take the first elevator. The doors ping open then, and Russ steps inside. There are no buttons. No hint of where we might be headed.

  “Don’t worry,” Russ murmurs, probably sensing the tension in every inch of my muscles. “This is not a mutual friend of your father’s or anything. Like I keep telling you, I have parts of my life they know nothing about.”

  “Okay,” I reply slowly, trying to force myself to relax a little. Then it dawns on me. He wants me to meet a friend of his? Does that mean this is more serious than just a hookup?

  I’ve been feeling that way, but I’ve been too afraid to ask him how he really feels, or what he expects out of this. I’m worried that if I ask, he’ll tell me it is just a hookup, and then I won’t be able to keep doing it, because… fuck. I am starting to have feelings for him, damn it. Real ones.

  I swallow back the sudden realization and force myself to keep my head in the moment. Just enjoy where you are, Maggie. Stop overthinking everything. Lord knows I’m the champion of overthinking.

  The elevator slows to a halt. Top floor, I realize. But when the doors open, I see nothing I expected on the other side. It’s not a penthouse, or a swanky apartment. It’s a whole restaurant, hidden up here like one of those old fashioned speakeasies that got so popular a few years back in the city.

  A real, unforced smile breaks out across my face as Russ leads me out of the elevator with a sly smile. “Guessing you haven’t been here before?”

  “How did you find out about this place?” I ask, my eyes widening as I take it in. It’s partially open air, with a glass enclosure over it now, though I can see that it could probably be removed in the summertime. Through the huge glass windows, there’s a brilliant 360 view. I can see all the way uptown to the new Hudson Yards development and the Empire and Chrysler buildings. Downtown, there’s the new One World Trade and a few of the apartment buildings that have popped up over Wall Street. Every time I blink these days, it seems like the city skyline is changing, yet somehow I never get sick of watching it light up at night like this.

  “I told you, we’re here to meet a friend,” he says.

  Closer to hand, the restaurant is a cluster of cozy little seating areas, some with velvet-lined booths, others with plush cushions in the middle of the floor. Russ leads me to a velvet booth in the corner, near where the uptown and western facing windows meet. It has the best view in both directions, I think.

  On the table itself, there’s a small placard with our names in curling script. Just out first names. Russ and Maggie. Seeing them together like that makes something hitch in my chest. Our names look good together. And this feels so right, like a normal date.

  We settle into the table, where a small floral arrangement greets us, alongside a menu that’s blank except for a ha
ndful of emojis.

  I laugh, looking them over. “What are these?” There’s a tongue emoji, then a heart eyes one. All the way down a list of about ten of them.

  “That is our menu,” replies a new voice. A man about Russ’s age has appeared behind our table, wearing an apron and twirling a drink shaker in one hand. “Do you like it?”

  “What does it mean?” I ask, peering at it again.

  “Each one represents the experience we’d like you to have tasting the dish,” he explains, before he deftly sets down two glasses and pours us a mixed drink worthy of my mother’s skills. “I suppose this must be the Maggie I’ve heard so much about lately?” he asks Russ, then, as Russ offers him a fist to bump.

  “Maggie, this is my friend Carlos. He’s a restauranteur. This place is his newest project.”

  Wait a minute. Carlos… that rings a bell. Carlos Ramirez? I remember reading a ton of articles about him—he’s got like ten restaurants across town. I had no idea Russ knew him. “Nice to meet you.” I offer a hand to shake, which he does, firmly. “Your restaurant is gorgeous.”

  “Just wait till you taste the food,” he says, holding up a hand to stave me off. “Looks are nothing if you don’t have good cuisine to pair.”

  “How do you two know each other?” I can’t help asking. How did I never know Russ was friends with a famous chef?

  Carlos’s smile widens. “Russ, you care to explain, or shall I?”

  “You can tell it,” Russ says, and there’s something about the way he phrases it that makes me think he doesn’t always like Carlos to admit it.

  Carlos gestures at me, and I slide over in the booth to make room, so he can join our table. As he sits, I take a sip of the drink he poured for us, and my eyelids flutter closed for a second in appreciation. It’s delicious. Delicate and spiced. It reminds me of Christmas. “Russ saved my life,” Carlos says, without any preamble.

  I glance over at Russ, my eyes widening.

  “We were in the same, well… shelter.” Carlos looks toward Russ with a hesitant glance, and Russ nods. “I guess he’s told you about the couple of months he spent homeless.”