My Best Friend’s Dad
Valentine’s Day Erotic Romance
GIRLS PLAYING WITH FIRE
MARISSA BLUSH
© Copyright Marissa Blush October 2019
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 – Home Alone
Chapter 2 – Playing with Fire
Chapter 3 – Pizza and a Movie
Chapter 4 – On the Living Room Couch
Chapter 5 – On the Hood of the Car
Chapter 6 – Finally in Bed
Chapter 7 – Saturday Afternoon
Chapter 8 – Sunday Morning
To be continued…
Author notes
My Best Friend’s Dad Series
Chapter 1 – Home Alone
A little party never killed nobody.
The flyer was created to put you in the atmosphere of a 1920s speakeasy. Black background and golden lettering, in a font appropriate to the era. They had included a nod to the famous Saint Valentine’s Day massacre. Streaks of red stained the last word as if blood was dripping off the letters.
Get dolled up for the best Valentine’s Day Party in Chicago.
I rearranged the strap of my heavy backpack and weaved through the crowd to get to my favorite spot in the café. The first sip of coffee started to work its magic, but it wasn’t enough to outweigh the heavy Valentine’s Day vibe.
The world seemed suffocated by chocolate hearts and red roses. The flyer was the last straw.
I went online and bought tickets for the first plane I had a good chance of catching that would take me home. On the way to the airport, I called my mother’s cell.
“Hi, mom. I’m coming home this weekend.”
“Oh, honey, why didn’t you tell us sooner?”
That was not at all the reaction I expected. I hadn’t seen my parents since the New Year’s party, and in all our previous conversations, they talked about missing me and about the house being empty.
“I just got the plane tickets. It was a spur of the moment sort of thing. Why? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. Your father and I planned a little getaway. We left a couple of hours ago.”
“But it’s Thursday,” I whined.
“I’m sorry, honey.”
“No, no, never mind. Have a good time, you too. Kiss dad for me.”
“Will do. Any news about Paris?”
The reply to my application for a summer program in Paris was supposed to come this week. I was checking my email just about every hour, even when in Paris was the middle of the night. It was Thursday already and I was getting ridiculously anxious.
“Not yet,” I said, trying to sound less frantic than I felt.
“You’ll get in, don’t worry.”
We ended the call on that hopeful note. I wasn’t as confident as her. She had to say that sort of thing, she was my mom. It might be for the best that they weren’t home this weekend. If I didn’t get the reply from Paris this week, I’d be a basket case.
In any case, home alone was better than in my dorm room with headphones on, trying to ignore my empty inbox and the fact that for the next fifty-six hours the world was going to be cotton-candy pink.
My parents decided to take a long romantic weekend. Good for them. I would have the house all to myself. The more I thought about it, the better it sounded.
The prospect of binge-watching horror movies on the huge tv downstairs with dad’s surround sound system at high volume cheered me up immensely. By the time I got off the plane, I was looking forward to my home alone weekend.
My good mood took a nose dive when I opened the fridge. Of course it would be empty if they planned to be away until Sunday evening. I made myself a huge bowl of cereals with soda instead of milk and went into the living room. I hadn’t been able to sleep on the plane, so I was already yawning when I looked for a movie to watch.
I fell asleep on couch, half-way through the original Exorcist. Our living room couch was bigger and more comfortable than my bed in Chicago. I woke up rested and the cereals and soda combination tasted even better than the night before.
Plan for the day: prepare the living room for watching movies. Step one, blackout the windows.
Watching horror movies in a well-lit room was no fun. Choosing what to watch was no problem. I had a long list of slasher films I wanted to see and classics I wanted to see again.
I closed the blinds, then brought the blackout curtains from my bedroom. It wasn’t even ten in the morning, but it looked like midnight. Awesome!
Step two. Food.
Takeout or cookout, that is the question.
When was I ever going to get the chance for some hands-on experience in our badass kitchen? After a couple of incidents that proved to my mother that I wasn’t blessed with cooking prowess, the most I got to do was occasionally help with menial chores like peeling yams, or mashing potatoes.
Come on, don’t be a chicken! Give it a try. What’s the worst that could happen?
With that positive attitude, I rummaged through the freezer and the pantry to see what ingredients I had at my disposal. If I had to go out and buy something, I might as well get takeout. A quick online search left me with a couple of recipes I could do with the meat, vegetables, spices and other stuff I found.
I was tempted to go for something easy, but once I found the ricotta, I knew I had to use it. My mother could do wonders with it. The recipe for spinach and ricotta stuffed turkey breast with garlic herb sauce seemed very close to something delicious my grandmother sometimes prepared for Thanksgiving.
Right. Let’s do this thing.
After defrosting the turkey breast in the microwave, it took me over half an hour to butterfly it and prepare the brine. It wasn’t the most professional job ever, but it looked ok and I had not cut any of my fingers.
If I learned anything from this experiment, was that cooking was hard. I had only done the prep work and I was already tired and a little bored. At least, I was stubborn.
The recipe said four to six hours of brining. That gave me time for the first three Halloween movies. We always had a stash of popcorn bags in the pantry. I stocked up on popcorn, soda and coffee in the living room and five hours flew by.
When the time came for the actual food prep, I called Diane. It was partly to procrastinate getting to work on the turkey, partly because I needed moral support. I opened my mouth to say hello, but as soon as the connection was established and Diane saw where I was, she didn’t give me the time to say anything.
“What the hell are you doing at home on Valentine’s Day?”
She knew our house as well as I knew hers. No wonder she recognized the kitchen behind me. I should have blurred the background and work my way to the pathetic reveal.
“Cooking,” I answered, deflated.
“God, Sarah, don’t you remember what happened the last time you tried?”
“Don’t be a jerk. I called you for moral support.”
“Sorry,” she said. “Are you ok? Did you, you know, break anything?”
“Thank you so fucking much for the confidence.”
She was right. What the hell was I thinking? I couldn’t cook.
“I didn’t mean it like that. Come on, tell me the recipe and I’ll cheer you on.”
It worked better than I could have hoped. Joking around with Diane helped me relax. The thing I put in the oven looked very much like something I could actually eat once it was done. And that was when I got cocky. I decided to sauté some veggies, then poured myself a coffee and climbed up on a tall stool to chat with Diane.
“Sarah, behind you!”
After my Halloween mini-maratho
n, my first reaction was to grab the chef’s knife that was still on the table and turn around. From the laptop, Diane burst into muffled laughter at my self-defense with a kitchen knife pose and shrieked at me to get out of the kitchen at the same time. The fire in the pan had extended to the curtains, and it was licking up toward the ceiling.
“Fuck!”
I dropped the knife on the floor and ran to the sink. The bowl in which I had brined the turkey was full to the brim with dirty water. I picked it up and threw the water toward the flames. It dosed off the lower half of the curtains, but the flames kept going up.
Wind kept blowing through the open window, fanning up the flames. On the stove, everything in the pan was on fire. I took it by the handle, dropped it in the sink and turned on the water.
“Get the hell out of the kitchen,” Diane shouted so loud, the laptop’s speaker crackled.
“The hell I will!”
I put on the oven mitt and tried to pull down the flaming curtain. Who the hell puts curtains right by the stove? If the fire reached the ceiling, chances were that sprinkler would get triggered, and that was one thing I couldn’t fix.
Worst case scenario: confirmed. Seconds later, the fire sprinkler was activated and half of the kitchen was getting sprayed with water. The only thing I could do now was to save the laptop if it wasn’t too late.
When I got to the darkened living room, Diane was still there. I felt around for the remote and turned on the tv to get some light, then I wiped the screen and the keyboard with a sweater I had on the back of a chair.
“How the hell do I stop the sprinkler?” I asked.
“Is the fire out?”
I ran back to look into the kitchen. I couldn’t see any fire still going, but there was a lot of smoke. And water. So much water. Pouring from the ceiling, dripping from the kitchen table, pooling into the sink and in every dish, gathering on every surface in the half of the kitchen covered by the sprinkler. To my relief, the coffee machine was on the safe side of the kitchen. I looked up at the sprinkler, wondering what could I do to make it stop.
“Are you ok?”
Diane’s shout via my tiny laptop speaker sounded like a mouse squeaking.
“I’m fine,” I shouted and nearly tripped on my way back. “Should I call the fire department? Isn’t it stupid to call the firemen to help me turn off the water?” I asked from the kitchen door.
She said something, but I remembered that the oven was still on, so I went into the artesian well that had once been our high-tech kitchen. The turkey was supposed to stay in for another ten minutes or so. Since I couldn’t risk taking it out and drenching it in water, I turned off the oven, hoping that the heat inside would finish the job. My stomach growled. If that was inedible, I’d have to order pizza after all.
I stayed for a few moments in the kitchen, looking around at the mess while the water kept pouring from the ceiling. The window was still open. I moved in slow motion to close it. It turned out that going to a Valentine’s Day party wasn’t the worst way to spend this weekend.
I dragged my feet back to the living room. The flickering light from the TV screen wasn’t very helpful to track down my phone. I didn’t know who I wanted to call, but I knew I had to reach out for help. To my parents or to 911.
“Can you call my phone please?” I said, giving up the quest.
“Sure thing.”
The screen lit up and Diane’s ringtone sounded from somewhere between the couch cushions.
“Got it.”
The call ended. No more reasons to postpone the embarrassing call. Irrationally, I hoped that the sound of pouring water would stop before I dialed 911.
My hand hovered over the screen. Maybe I should call my parents first. For all I knew, there was a button somewhere I could push and the water would stop.
Just as I was about to call them, the water stopped. I let the phone drop back on the couch and ran into the kitchen. I couldn’t believe it. The water had stopped!
“Diane, you’re not going to believe this-”
A knock on the front door interrupted me. Who the hell could it be, now of all times?
I ran from the kitchen to the front door and yanked it open, prepared to scream at whoever was there.
“Hi, Sarah,” said Mr. Sinclair.
Chapter 2 – Playing with Fire
My jaw dropped at the sight of Paul Sinclair, in his perfectly tailored dark grey suit, with the light blue shirt and silk tie. He had been clean-shaven that morning, but I could already see a light stubble on his cheeks. The green in his eyes had borrowed something from the miserably cloudy winter day.
“Umm,” I said.
“Can I come in?”
“What? Oh, sure.”
I stepped aside and closed the door behind him. The cold February weather made me shiver, soaking wet as I was. My teeth chattered a bit when I closed the door behind him. I clenched my jaw to suppress the embarrassing noise.
“Diane called me. She said a fire sprinkler got activated, so I turned off your main water supply. The fire is out, right?”
“Y-yes,” I said.
He walked past me, heading for the kitchen. I crossed my arms over my chest and followed him. The cold had hardened my nipples. I pressed my forearms over them, wishing I was wearing a bra. He slowed down in the dark living room.
“We should call the company that installed the system,” he said. “Hey, baby.”
Before I had time to wonder at the change in tone, Diane replied from my laptop.
“Hi, dad. Thanks for getting there so fast.”
“Traffic was light.”
“People are probably away for the Valentine’s Day weekend. Speaking of, I have to go. I’m so glad to know you’re there. Bye, Sarah.”
“Bye,” I answered dazedly from the spot by the door where I had remained.
Diane’s face disappeared from the screen, leaving us alone.
“Why is it so dark in here?” Mr. Sinclair asked.
I reached out for the switch instinctively and turned on the lights.
“Movies,” I said, glancing at the tv screen.
I crossed my arms again over my breasts, wondering just how transparent was my wet t-shirt. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to take any interest in my disheveled state.
“Do you know the number for the company who installed your system?”
“I can call my parents,” I said without energy.
I didn’t want to disturb them on their romantic getaway. I couldn’t get away with fixing this without their knowledge, but they could be spared the concern for my safety or the house’s integrity until Sunday evening when they got back.
“Let me check,” he said. “I’m sure it’s the same company we used.”
He looked through his phone and before I could think of anything to say, he was already talking to someone.
My wet hair and clothes made me feel slimy. I probably looked like a drowned cat. After the rush of adrenaline, first from the fire, then from the flood, I was beginning to calm down. I had to dry myself and change into fresh clothes.
Mr. Sinclair was telling the operator our address when I managed to catch his gaze.
“I’m going upstairs to change,” I whispered, pointing to the stairs. “I’ll be right back.”
He nodded and went on talking on the phone, answering questions as confidently as if this was about his own house. I focused on his voice while I scurried up the stairs. I had missed it so much.
No time for a shower. I stripped completely and for a moment I was tempted to look for a dress. Maybe that white beach dress.
Bad Sarah! Behave!
I found another pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Since I had company, I put on a bra this time. My summer clothes were still at home, so I chose the bra I wore that night. There was no way for him to notice it was the same one, but I’d know. Bad Sarah was winning. If I had any condoms, I’d put one in the bra, just like l
ast summer. A girl could hope…
In the bathroom, I wiped some of the smeared makeup off my face and wrapped my hair in a towel. I wanted so much to take a shower and wash my hair to get the smell of smoke off, but I had more pressing concerns. For one thing, Mr. Sinclair was downstairs, doing what I should have been able to do if I was a real adult. For another, I had to do something about the kitchen, which meant getting wet and dirty all over again. And, yeah, the water was shut off.
In the living room, Mr. Sinclair was on the couch, looking through the movies in my playlist. He had taken off his jacket and his immaculate shirt was buttoned all the way to the top, but he had loosened up his tie. How many of my fantasies started like that? Quite a few.
“They’ll be here in an hour,” he said, standing up.
“Oh, God, I’m so glad you did that. I had no idea who to call other than my parents and I would’ve ruined their weekend if they knew about…” My voice trailed off. I shook my head, dismissing the rest of the self-pitying rant. “Thank you.”
“Glad I could help. What are you going to do until the plumber shows up?”
At least he didn’t ask what I wanted to do. That particular box was best left closed.
“I’ll try to sort out the mess in the kitchen as much as I can.”
“Do you need a hand?”
He probably didn’t do it on purpose. He was a nice guy who had always been a good neighbor. The question had to be one of the most frequent in the English language. It was perfectly appropriate to the situation. Despite all that, my brain decided to jump straight into the realm of double entendre. I could definitely use his hand.
“Oh, you don’t have to,” I managed to say.
I had to hope he didn’t guess the reason for my hesitation and that I wasn’t blushing too visibly.
“I want to help.”
He smiled that bright and honest smile that sparkled in his green eyes, and my scruples melted away.
I was doomed. The warmth in his voice backed up his open smile. It was a gracious offer, and at the same time a chance to repair our damaged friendship.
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