My Dad s Friend

Who’s the guy? Your boyfriend? He’s unbelievably hot!”

I flinched as a new college friend sidled up next to me and sat down on the ledge I’d been occupying.

The man she was looking at was a chick magnet, it was true. With dark, short, styled hair, figure-hugging jeans, and a tank top that showed off his ripped muscles.

He lifted his arm and waved at me, a huge smile causing him to flash his pearly whites at me.

I reluctantly waved back and shook my head. Didn’t he know how ridiculous he looked in those clothes?

“Not my boyfriend," I said, as casually as possible.

I got to my feet, slinging my bag over my shoulder. "That’s my Dad. Better go. Have a great holiday.”

I walked away from Claire, whose mouth was still hanging open as she continued to stare at my father. I knew all the questions that would be running through her mind. First and foremost, would be, “How old was he when he had you?”

I’d been asked the question a thousand times before.

“Hey, beautiful. How was your week?” Dad asked, leaning casually against his red convertible, like an old re-run of Magnum, PI.

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Seriously, Dad. You do own a proper shirt, right? Can’t you wear one when you pick me up?”

He laughed and pushed off from the car, his big arms encircling me and squeezing tight. “I’ve missed you.”

I let my eyes close as I inhaled his scent. The spicy Polo he’d been using since I was little engulfed me and made me yearn for Friday night movies and popcorn. “Me too.”

I stepped back and he held open the passenger’s side door for me.

Always my mother would say.

Pity she hadn’t held on to him long enough for us to be a real family.

“Thanks.” I slid into the small, older BMW and he got in the other side after closing my door and walking around the hood.

“Do I really look that terrible?” Dad asked, his huge biceps flexing as he turned on the ignition and grabbed the gear shift.

I rolled my eyes at him in an exaggerated way. “They always think you’re my boyfriend. No one ever believes me when I say you’re my father.”

He chuckled and pulled into St. Pete traffic. “Not my fault I didn’t age as well as your mother.”

Age as badly, you mean.

“Hey, leave her out of it. She doesn’t have the time or money you do to work on herself, you know that,” I shot back and then had to work hard not to laugh when he gave me a side-eye look that said, “You know what I mean.”

I sighed and glanced out the window, watching the palm trees fly by.

My dad I was born on his twenty-first birthday and he always said I was the best birthday present he ever received.

The problem was, I was now twenty-one, and instead of looking forty-two like he should, my dad looked thirty.

Maybe thirty-five, if you looked really close at the crow’s feet around his eyes. But his body was better than any thirty-year-old I’d ever seen, and his naturally thick and dark hair took a decade off his age. Apparently, grey hairs were allergic to him.

“Mom isn’t that bad,” I defended and my dad didn’t say anything, diplomatic guy that he was. “She just looks her age.” Or a few years