I mean, she wasn’t gross.
Marianne Turner was an incredibly beautiful woman.
She looked close to my dad’s age.
Ish.
Give or take a few years.
Once you got that old, five or ten years really meant nothing, let’s face it.
Her long, blonde hair was down in stylish, killer waves that I needed to learn how to do.
I wonder what kind of iron she used?
Anyway, her makeup was also on point, as were her clothes.
For a mom—she had a bangin’ bod. Her jeans fit snug, and there wasn’t anything she could hide in that style.
I’d give up partying for a week if I could borrow her ankle boots. They were dark black, and I’d almost bet she used the skinny heel to pierce men’s hearts.
The black top she wore hugged her torso, and the v-neck was low enough to show off some cleavage.
Which might be exactly what my dad was staring at.
Yuck.
“Come, Marianne, please have a seat,” Marcel said, guiding her by us, and to a chair across from Dad.
I watched his eyes, and yeah—one hundred percent—he was staring at Marianne’s ass as she walked.
Yuck, ick, and gross.
I glared daggers, arrows, knives, and whatever else I could think of at him to get his attention.
Finally, I whisper-yelled, “Dad,” and he looked at me, “are you even kidding me?” The puppy in my lap startled slightly. I rubbed her ears to apologize.
Dad tilted his head. “What’s your problem?” he said with a frown right back at me.
“Do not,” I warned him in my serious voice.
Once upon a time, my dad was hot.
He also played pro hockey.
Which amped up his hotness factor about a billion degrees.
This also meant that women—even young women, not much older than me—ew, yuck, and gross—still threw themselves at him.
There’d been more than a few times over the years that some of my friendships went south because my dad—went out with my friend’s mom.
So, yeah, this was a thing that he’d agreed to quit doing.
For one thing, I’d been tired of losing friends.
For another—talk about gross.
He was my dad.