Until Judge, I’d thought no other man was more beautiful than my dad.
No.
Wait.
I didn’t just think until Judge.
(But I did.)
“Hello, beautiful,” Dad murmured before he leaned in and kissed my cheek.
“Father,” I greeted curtly.
He pulled back with brows drawn at my tone as he looked at me.
“Hello, darling,” Mom greeted, swanning in wearing white jeans, a tan belt, and a soft denim shirt, cute tan booties on her feet.
An outfit of which I approved, mostly because I’d purchased each piece for her, and then I’d spent two hours with her in her closet explaining the variety of outfits she was allowed to create with the different pieces.
That outfit being one.
I met her halfway, and we did a continental kiss, brushing our lips on each cheek.
“Hey there,” Bowie rumbled his greeting next, and it was accompanied by a warm hug.
When he let me go, I looked pointedly at him, at Mom, then to Judge.
Bowie did not miss my meaning.
“We’re here to talk about Tom and me doing some PR stuff for the Kids and Trails program,” he explained.
This made absolute sense.
And none whatsoever.
Perfect for PR not only for the program, but for our family.
Havoc on my brain.
“I see this is an excellent idea, however, I’m uncertain what part I play in it,” I noted.
“We want you and Judge to produce the project, which should be video, digital and print,” Mom said, and she did this looking all over my face, except in my eyes.
They’d seen me and Judge on Bowie’s veranda. They’d maybe even seen us kissing.
And thus, now, they were matchmaking.
In so doing, they were throwing me and Judge together with an offer I couldn’t refuse.
Oh. My. God!
How infuriating!
I mean, even though he ran the program, so he knew it far better than me.
And even though I knew all the players and had an innate talent for branding and marketing (if I did say so myself, which I did), not to mention, ran my own mutual aid program that might not be flourishing, but it worked.
So, this made sense.
And even though I had utterly no qualms with interfering in the lives of people I loved, case in point, me conniving to get Mom and Bowie together, and there Mom and Bowie were…together.
Still!
“We thought we’d talk about it over dinner,” Dad entered the conversation. “Nail some things down. Get it started.”
His get it started really meant get it done so he didn’t have to hang out with Bowie for too long.
Mom and Bowie had reunited in September. It was now January.
But I knew that was nowhere near long enough for anyone to get used to the fact the love of their life had moved on.
Suddenly, I was getting ticked.
At Mom.
And not for her intervening with me and Judge.
But for her being entirely clueless about what she was doing to Dad.
Naturally, this meant I turned right to Judge and bit off, “We need to talk. Outside.”
I then tossed my bag on Dad’s kitchen table and flounced out the glass door that was one of several in the house that led to the back yard. And believe me, I was a girl who could flounce, and I didn’t hesitate to put all my flouncing abilities into that one.
I also did not stop in the firepit seating area that was close to the house.
I did not head to the hot tub area that was also close to the house.
I headed beyond the pool, out to the remote seating area that sat on the edge of Dad’s lot that butted, over a fence, a large strip of greenway that provided a wide, gorgeous, desert-landscaped buffer (however this “desert” had lush, green grass and numerous tall, shady trees). This was situated between the houses on Dad’s side and the houses on the other side.
It had walking trails and some practice putting greens, not to mention attractive exercise areas.
Totally Dad.
The pads on the built-in semicircle bench that surrounded another firepit were black with white piping.
His furnishings around the pool area and throughout the house were divine, partially because I micromanaged his interior designer until (I was pretty sure) she was this close to quitting.
We got the job done, though.
When I whirled on Judge, I wanted to be surprised that he was right behind me—no lag, he was with me all the way—but I wasn’t.
I also wanted this not to feel awesome.
But it did.
“Right,” I launched in, “we need to handle this.”
He shoved his hands in his jeans pockets.
Jeans and a black Henley.
A tightfitting one.
I’d already sensed he had a magnificent chest, this item of apparel just proved it and I hadn’t even seen him with his shirt off.
Lord, this man.
“Handle what?” he asked.
I didn’t begin to open my mouth in answer before he went on.
“By the way, it’s super fucking cool what you do to assist women in getting better gigs.”