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I might as well make myself useful around the house. There's a load of laundry waiting in the basement, and sorting clothes is about the only task I can imagine concentrating on right now. I leave my office and head toward the basement stairs, calling up to Sophie as I pass the main staircase.

“Soph! You got anything for the wash?”

Her voice floats back, muffled. “Yeah, hang on!”

I wait at the foot of the stairs while she gathers her things. A minute later, she comes down with a wicker basket balanced on her hip, wearing leggings and an oversized t-shirt that hangs off one shoulder. Her dark hair is piled into a messy knot, with a few loose strands escaping around her face, and she's barefoot. She shifts the basket higher against her hip before handing it over.

“Here,” she says, handing me the basket. “Thanks. Most of it’s darks, but I think there’s a t-shirt in there that might be white. Honestly, though, if it turns gray I don’t care.”

“I’ll separate it.” I take the basket down the basement stairs to the laundry room and start pulling things out. A pair of jeans. A sweatshirt. Underwear—black, lace. I set it in the darks pile without looking at it. Without thinking about it.

Without thinking about her writing about touching herself, about coming hard thinking about someone she shouldn’t.

My face feels warm. I turn toward the washing machine and start loading the dark clothes.

Sophie followed me down the stairs. “So,” she says, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed. “You never said who this friend is you’re seeing tonight.”

I keep my back to her. “Just someone I’ve been out with a couple times.”

“Female someone?”

“Yes, female someone.”

“Is she hot?”

I turn to look at her over my shoulder and frown. “Sophie.”

She laughs. “What? I’m allowed to ask if your date is hot. That’s, like, the bare minimum of information.”

“She’s attractive, yes.”

“And?”

“And nothing.”

She picks up a stray sock from the floor and tosses it into the dark pile. “You’re being weirdly cagey about this.”

“I’m not being cagey. There’s just not much to tell.” I reach for the detergent and measure it into the cap. “She’s a lawyer. We met through a colleague. She’s smart, she’s funny, and we get along. That’s the whole story.”

“Does she know about me?”

The question catches me off guard. “Yes. I told her I have a stepdaughter in college.”

“Did you tell her I’m incredibly cool and the best thing that ever happened to you?”

“Probably. More or less.”

She grins and picks up the empty laundry basket. “Well, have fun with your hot lawyer friend, then, I guess.”

I listen to her footsteps on the stairs, still never turning away from the washing machine, the cap full of detergent still in my hand.

Why the fuck do I have a hard-on?

It happened while she was talking. Maybe when I touched underwear. I set the detergent down and rest my palms on the cool metal of the machine. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.

This is fucking insane. She’s nineteen. She’s Sophie. This is not who I am.

I load the rest of the clothes, start the machine, and close the door. The water rushes in. Upstairs, music starts playing. I can hear it all the way down here. She’s in her room, probably on her bed with her phone, or writing in that goddamn notebook. Having thoughts she’s entitled to have. Thoughts I have no right to read.