Page 22 of My Best Friend's Dad

But it’swaytoo late because Rowleigh is striding down the sidewalk in a black button-up that molds to his perfect muscly chest, arms, and sinful shoulders, and he’s literally turning every head out here. Paired with a charcoal set of pants that are no doubt doing as great a thing for his backside as they are for the front, half of those head-turns morph into back stares.

He’s hot enough to kindle a bonfire after a month of rain, but he’s still Mika’s dad. I need to drill that into my brain and have it be a bad thing, not something my lady bits get all shivery over.

I try to strike a casual pose, but I probably look like I’ve just bent over and had someone pitch a cactus straight into my hind end. “Hey.” I grasp my purse strap, causing the fringe on the suede bag to shimmy. My lungs work double time trying to dragin air. “Dinner’s a few blocks that way.” I point in the wrong direction. “I mean…this way.”

I make the mistake of not moving fast enough. His feet are already in motion, so he gets slightly ahead of me, which means I get a full view of his ass in those pants, and yup. They prove they’re a true museum, showcasing a lovely piece of carved artistry.

My belly flips as my brain paints the smuttiest picture of me doing something wicked to that sculpture with my tongue.

I speed up, falling into step beside Rowleigh, though he has a quick walking pace that makes me breathless by the time we’re standing in front of the taco joint.

His eyes track slowly to my face, almost in accusation. Beneath the shadow of stubble lining his jaw and his normally tanned complexion, he’s gone pale. He rakes a hand through his hair like he did in my office when he was stressed, messing up strands I’d like to use as a handhold while I—

Wow, congrats. You’ve made it half a second without objectifying your best friend’s father.

He eyes the glowing sign, a neon guy with a great big smile and a taco in each hand. “Why this place?”

“It’s the best place in the freaking state, that’s why.”

“Tacos,” he groans.

“Yes, tacos. Who doesn’t like tacos? It’s an experience of a lifetime. An item to cross off your bucket list before you even knew it was a thing.”

I expect him to at least crack a small smile and give it a go, but I don’t expect Mr. High and Mighty with a Refined Palate for Thousand Dollar Steaks to reel away and actuallygag. He even bends at the waist, all dramatic, but nothing happens.

Thank goodness.

“Whoa! If you’re a taco hater, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” I’m in panic mode. When Rowleigh straightens, he’s as greenas a seasick dog. “We could get chili cheese fries. Nachos. Homemade ice cream. They have all of it.”

“I’m not going in there.”

What did tacos ever do to him? “Okay, well, that’s not a problem. We can just go for a walk along the water. I know of a few other places that aren’t that far, but they’re not once-in-a-lifetime experiences. Wait, no. Scratch that. This one little food shack has the best deep-fried pickles.”

He puts up a hand, green on green. “I just need a minute. Bad eating competition gone wrong back in the day. Terrible memories.”

That explains a lot.

I once threw up pizza. I couldn’t look at pizza again for years without dying a little inside. My mom explained to me in her best doctor voice that once the body thinks it’s been poisoned by something, it’s a biological imperative from our caveman brains not to want to eat it again. Self-preservation at its finest.

My brain puts all its might into Operation Comatose, checking out when I need it the most. I have…nothing. No alternative. No backup plan. It’s not dark enough to skinny dip or swing at the park, but I already established that while amazingly freeing, those activities run the inherent risk of getting us arrested, and that’s not exactly first-date material.

Not that this is a date.

Inspiration hits me as my brain starts running wild at the worddate,trickling in all the X-rated off-limits images of Rowleigh, the lounge, and the piano.

Piano.

“Down by the water, they have a piano. It’s one of those public ones that’s been painted all funky. It’s in a little gazebo, and anyone can play it.”

I probably just imagine the way color rushes back into Rowleigh’s face. He looks decidedly less sick. Taco crisis averted.

Before my body can get all wobbly and off-kilter at all Rowleigh’s hotness within a one-mile radius, I set off. My flats come in handy as I powerwalk the eight blocks, and he easily keeps pace beside me.

He doesn’t feel the need to fill the silence until we get stuck waiting at a never-ending light at an impossibly long intersection for the lit-up man to start blinking. “Tacos is your idea of seizing life by the balls?”

Ouch.His voice is completely without inflection, but I can hear the roast in it. I get what he’s thinking.I’m not giving up my business deal and messing up my whole life for any kind of eats, no matter how good they are.

My brain very helpfully supplies a great counterargument.If he was eating your pussy or treating you to his hotdog, he might change his tune.