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“Yummy, Mr. Daddy Issues looks fiiiine in a tux.” Taylor spins the phone around again to reveal him waving to the camera in a tuxedo outside the opera house in Paris.
“Is that Kim K on his arm?” Sylvia squints.
Seriously? Come on.
“Nah, just a lookalike. Damn, this man looks like Ken. Like literally Ken in his… how old is he again?” She taps a few times. “Holy shit, he’s forty-five? It should be illegal to look this good.”
I reach for my drink again, guzzling down the icy liquid, but it does little to suppress the desire that’s beginning to burn.
“He could literally be your daddy,” Sylvia teases.
“Yeah, but that’s why it’s so hot, isn’t it?” I didn’t mean to say it out loud but it’s the truth. “I just mean being with an experienced man, you know?”
“Have you ever?” Taylor asks and I shake my head no.
“No. There was a professor in undergrad that I could have if I wanted to, but it felt weird and I didn’t want him to risk his job.”
“I have.” Sylvia shrugs.
“When?”
“When I was in undergrad actually. He was this older wealthy guy who liked having me around since I was young. I was twenty-one; he was forty-something, who knows, maybe even fifty. It was nothing serious. I think we both knew it was just a summer fling but damn, was it hot.” She smiles, reminiscing, I assume.
“And you have a great relationship with your father,” I point out. “So not all crushes on older men are daddy issues.”
“But yours are,” she says.
“Not necessarily. I’ve always been into older men. My sexual awakening was George Clooney and I was like eleven at the time.”
“First”—Sylvia holds up a finger—“George Clooney has always been and will always be fine. He’s everyone’s sexual awakening; even straight men have had shower thoughts about George Clooney. Second, your dad has been a piece of shit since before you were eleven so that negates your argument.”
“Fine,” I huff, crossing my arms and sitting back in my chair.
“But it’s not your fault; it’s your dad’s. He’s the one who fucked up.”
“I know.” I sigh. “Is it so bad to indulge in daddy issues? I mean so what if I end up with an older man. Can a relationship not work if it grows out of past trauma?”
Taylor reaches out and grabs my hand, “No, sweetie, we didn’t mean it like that. If you meet someone who’s older and they truly make you happy, who gives a fuck what society thinks. We just want to make sure you don’t end up with some older asshole who is just going to flake on you like your dad did when you were a kid. I know your dad is different now and you guys are working on your relationship, and that’s the first step to then finding healthy relationships with the men you date.”
“It really is a damn shame I didn’t wait to tell him my name till after we hooked up, isn’t it?” I say, referring to Beckham, causing both women to burst out laughing.
* * *
“Okay, you’ve got this.”
I slick on my favorite berry-colored lipstick that makes my blue eyes pop, then I smooth down my hair. I spray a few spritzes of my signature Chanel Chance perfume and double-check my outfit.
Did I spend two, possibly three hours last night picking out my outfit for today? Yes, but it’s because I want to make a good first impression at my job, not because I’m so attracted to my boss that I spent an additional three hours after my lunch date with my friends, doing a little—okay a lot—of my own Google research on him.
I read up on his nonprofit he mentioned, The Archer Foundation. Shockingly, their website isn’t littered with photos of him cutting ribbons, posing with children or mothers or handing over giant checks. In fact, there’s very little mention of him at all. I’m not sure if that’s because like most of these uber rich types he only writes a check every quarter and slaps his name on it or if it’s truly because he doesn’t want it to be about him.
I make a mental note to send them an email inquiring about accepting new volunteers before grabbing my bag and heading downstairs to catch my train.
I tap the toe of my black pumps nervously as I triple-check my manicure for the third time in a row. I slide my camera screen to the front-facing camera and double-check that my lipstick hasn’t smeared. I smile a toothy grin, looking for any sneaky chia seeds that might have lodged in my teeth when I pull back and see Beckham behind me in the camera frame.
“Good morning!” I fumble with my phone, almost dropping it as I rush to stand up and face him.
“Good morning, Miss Spencer. You beat me into work. Not gunning for my job, I hope.” He flashes a flirty smirk as his eyes casually travel down my body. It’s not in a predatory manner, more an appreciative perusing of my outfit selection—a fitted black dress that falls just above my knee, black pumps, and some sensible gold jewelry.
