Falling for My Boyfriend's Dad(6)

By: Cassandra Dee

But tomorrow became the day after, which became next week, which became next month. And soon enough, I’d been Jonah’s girlfriend for an entire two months, with an invitation to his dad’s place for Thanksgiving.

“You sure?” I asked tentatively. “I mean, it’s kinda soon after, you know, the divorce and all.”

But Jonah batted his hand like Miss America doing a wave.

“Even more reason for us to go,” he said airily. “Otherwise Robert’s home by himself for Thanksgiving.”

That made me blush. I envisioned Mr. Martin sitting alone on the couch, bored and restless in a bathrobe, flipping through channels aimlessly while the rest of the city celebrated in a happy family circle, stuffing themselves with turkey and pie. My heart went out to the alpha male before my brain snapped into focus, almost making me laugh. Because even recently divorced, there was no way that handsome man was alone. Women were probably unsheathing their claws as we spoke, getting ready to dig them into the big man, back on the market after all these years. I shook my head, exasperated and flustered at once. What the hell was wrong with me? I was a naïve college girl, awkward and nervous, way out of my league with someone like Robert Martin. What was I even thinking, dreaming about him? It was so taboo, my wires were crossed, I was dating his son for crying out loud. Granted, Jonah never touched me, we still didn’t do much more than study together, but still. My train of thought was so twisted, and I had no business going down that path, no business at all. So I forced myself to nod and smile.

“Sure, sounds wonderful,” I chirped, trying to sound eager and happy. “I’d love to come.”

And suspecting nothing, Jonah nodded.

“Great,” he said unenthusiastically. “We’ll just be a couple days and then we can come back. Pack for four nights.”

And I nodded again, heart pumping. Because despite myself, I still dreamed about Mr. Martin late at night sometimes. When I was alone in my bed, my thoughts would wander and I’d imagine I was dating the big man and not his son, that the alpha male was with me, flashing that white smile as his blue eyes gleamed, his huge form lying next to me on my narrow mattress. What we’d do was delicious, so naughty and explicit that I’d blush, even alone in my room with no one to see. But I caught myself again. I had no business, no right to think about Mr. Martin this way. Stop it Ally, I scolded myself, stop right now, stop what you’re doing. But the thing is I couldn’t stop my heart from pumping, couldn’t stop my heart from longing for what might be … even if my boyfriend’s dad was totally off-limits.



I let myself into the apartment after a work-out, my second of the day. What no one tells you about selling a business is that once the deal is done, your formerly busy days are now empty. It was a change to be sure. I was used to working twelve hours a day, ruthlessly making money, money, and then more money. But now that the business was in someone else’s hands, my days had opened up and the empty space gaped wide like a hole that couldn’t be filled. What do people do if they don’t work? Sure, I watched movies, I worked out like a fanatic, I even took some on-line language classes, figuring to brush up on my high school Spanish. But it fucking sucked, and it got boring after a while. So usually I just head out to the gym again, pumping iron, doing cardio, the works, the result of which is I look fucking amazing for a forty-five year old, I’ve got the body of a twenty-five year old stud.

And the ladies let me know it. It’s pretty embarrassing how they come at me from every direction. I swear, I could take a walk around my building, go a block or two and there’d be a couple women trying to strike up a conversation, letting their little dogs run up to me as an ice-breaker.

“Oh hello!” they’d exclaim. “I’m Barbara / Emily / Amanda, and this is Cookie / Dazzles / Winston, my dog. And you are?”

And unfortunately, it’s always the same type of woman in Manhattan. It’s always a mid-thirties divorcee with overly processed blonde hair and an orange tan, so skinny that a strong gust of wind would blow her over. I hated this type, the kind with the thousand dollar designer bag and two thousand dollar designer shoes. Because I’d made that mistake before. Jonah’s mom was exactly that kind of materialistic bitch, and I’d been married to her for almost twenty years, which was about twenty years too long.

So yeah, once burned twice shy. My type is no longer a Manhattan socialite, no longer a social-climbing x-ray so bony that clothes look like drapes on them. Instead, I like curvy and generous. Oh yeah, I like big boobs, a huge ass, and wide hips that shake when a woman walks, like she’s always doing the rumba. And I like a sweet smile, an air of sincerity, and a softness of the heart that’s hard to find in this city. Maybe living in NYC has made me cynical but I just don’t think the type of woman I’m looking for lives here, that she’d be drawn to the high life.

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