Her Daddy's Best Friend

by Kim Wickford

That was a slightly better arrangement. But I was still mortified. Even though this was the most important celebration of my life—one that deserved chaos, debauchery, and a ton of booze—I vowed to keep things quiet and low-key. The last thing I needed was an embarrassing run-in with Mr. Worthington.

  Chapter 3

  We were halfway into the karaoke contest that evening when the doorbell rang. Most of my friends were hanging out in the living room singing or playing beer pong, but a few stragglers continued to arrive. I expected to greet a bunch of latecomers to my party. Instead, it was our neighbor who filled the door frame.

  My worst nightmare had come true.

  I tried hard to sound casual as I swallowed my awkwardness. "Oh, hi, Mr. Worthington."

  He gave me a lopsided grin. "Don't be shy. You can use my first name."

  "Um, okay … Logan." Saying his name felt weird on my tongue. I'd only ever referred to him as a mister. "Is something wrong?"

  "I heard some Eighties tunes drifting across the backyard. Couldn't resist stopping by for a better listen. It's my favorite decade."

  "Oh God, are we being too noisy?" To the annoyance of all my friends I had insisted on keeping the volume of the music turned down. I guess it hadn't been low enough.

  Logan shook his head and leaned in closer, as if he was about to share a secret with me. A lock of dark brown hair tumbled across his forehead. The spicy fragrance of his aftershave and the rich aroma of expensive tobacco filled the air between us. I remember how intoxicated I felt when I was enveloped by the same scent when he sat beside me on the porch all those years ago.

  "The music's fine. The real reason I'm here is because your mom asked me to stop by at midnight to make sure the house was still standing."

  I let out an exasperated breath. "She's so paranoid!"

  "Can you blame her? She does have a lot of priceless antiques that need safeguarding." He poked his head inside and looked around the foyer. "Like that Ming vase over there."

  I joined him in admiring the piece of Chinese-manufactured plastic that stood in the corner.

  "Yes, quite the collector's item," I agreed, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. "A Target exclusive, perfect for any home. You can own one too for $29.95, if you feel like splurging."

  "Hmm, too rich for my blood. How about the other family heirlooms? Are those still intact?"

  "Are you here to do a room-by-room inspection?" Knowing my mother, it wouldn't have surprised me if she gave Logan a clipboard with an itemized list of treasures to check.

  He straightened up and gave me that lopsided grin again. "I think we're good here. Nothing seems to be on fire, and the SWAT team isn't parked in your driveway. You seem to have things under control." I'm sure he was just as uncomfortable as I was about being asked to check up on me.

  He took a step backward as he prepared to leave. I could have shut the door behind him, safe in the knowledge that he probably wouldn't return for the rest of the night. But I forgot how easy it was to talk to him; how nice it was to look at him. The buttons of his white linen shirt were open just enough to give a tantalizing peek at his muscular pecs.

  In a moment of impulse I blurted, "Would you like to come inside and hang out for a while?"

  He cocked an eyebrow, surprised by my invitation. "Is this a formal invite to your birthday party? Because you've caught me at a loss. I didn't bring a gift."

  "Gifts are for little girls," I said with a casual toss of my hair. "This is just a relaxed get-together with some friends from school."

  "I haven't been to a college shindig in years. You're sure you don't mind me crashing?"

  "Of course not. But on one condition."

  "What's that?"

  "No break-dancing."

  "And what makes you think I'd do something like that?"

  "Didn't you just say the Eighties was your favorite decade?"

  He frowned. "Can I moonwalk a little if a Michael Jackson song comes on?"

  "Absolutely not! And one more thing. Please don't go into Parental Mode. This is my special night, and you might see me do some questionable things."

  His eyes widened in mock surprise, and he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You mean like drink beer and smoke pot?"

  "What makes you think I smoke pot?" I asked, blushing.

  He pinned me with his gorgeous baby blues. "C'mon, I was in college once, too."

  "They had weed back in the Stone Ages? Wow!"

  The dimples on his cheeks deepened as he gave me a proper smile this time. How was it possible for him to look even more gorgeous than he already was? I had to turn away quickly before he saw my temperature rise.

  I led him down the hallway towards the kitchen and tried to compose myself. The only reason I'd been bold enough to invite him inside in the first place was because I was feeling tipsy. But I was sobering up fast knowing he was only a few paces behind. Was it my imagination or could I feel the heat of his gaze moving up and down my body?

  "Would you like a drink to loosen up?" I asked.

  "Why? Do I seem tense?"

  I stopped and gave him the once-over. I'd never seen anyone who looked more relaxed and at ease in his skin than Logan Worthington did in that moment.

  "Yeah, as a matter of fact you do," I lied. "I'm sure you've been sitting next door, fretting about Mom's furniture all night."

  He stepped close. "Then how do you suggest I relax?"

  I could think of a million ways, most of which involved the removal of some—if not all—of his clothes.

  "How about a Jell-O shot?" I asked.

  He shook his head. "Probably shouldn't. As the official party supervisor, I need to stay sober. You know, in case someone needs a ride home."

  "Everyone's sleeping over."

  "What if people get rowdy and you need someone to break up a fight?" he asked, cracking his knuckles.

  "A tiny cup of Jell-O shouldn't effect a big guy like you." I reached into the fridge for two plastic shot glasses. One for him, one for me.

  He put his hand on my wrist before I could bring the glass to my lips. "Not so fast."

  "What's wrong?"

  "We haven't had a toast yet."

  "What shall we drink to?"

  "Your twentieth birthday," he said.

  "I'm turning twenty-one. Didn't you notice all the booze?" I pointed to the growing collection of empty beer bottles beside the sink.

  "And all along I thought I'd have to confiscate everything because you were underage."

  "Sorry to disappoint you."

  He held up his plastic glass and bumped it against mine. "Here's to Amber becoming a woman at last. Happy birthday."

  While I tried to dig out the vodka-infused jelly with my finger, Logan expertly tongued his loose. He tipped it into his mouth and made it vanish in a flash. I couldn't help but wonder at what other tricks that tongue of his was capable of performing.

  "How do you do that so well?" I asked.

  He shrugged. "It's like eating an oyster."

  "I've never had one of those before."

  "Never? Well, Jell-O shots are the perfect way to practice." He took my hands in his and plucked my sticky finger out of the cup. "Swirl your tongue around the edge to loosen it," he said, holding the plastic rim against my lower lip.

  I looked up at him, very much aware of how close he stood, and how intimate it felt to have him press something to my mouth.

  It took me a few attempts to get it right, but under his expert tutelage the mold finally popped free. I squeezed my eyes shut and swallowed.

  "Nicely done," he said. "That's a lot cleaner than trying to scrape it out with your nail, am I right?"

  I nodded and quietly wiped my finger on the leg of my jeans. "Shall we go again?" I asked, in no hurry to let him out of my sight. "Practice makes perfect."

  "Don't mind if I do."

  We touched glasses a second time. I was about to show him what a quick learner I was when Stacy stepped into the kitchen.


  "There you are, Amber!" she brayed. "I've been looking for you everywhere. You're up next for karaoke." Her eyes lit up when she caught sight of Logan. "Who's this handsome fellow," she asked, sidling over to us.

  "Stacy, I'd like you to meet Logan. He's my—"

  "Loooogan," she purred. Her breasts swelled as she thrust out her chest and offered her hand for him to shake. She didn't let go once she had him in her clutches. "You look positively parched. I bet you could use a drink."

  "I'm fine," he said, holding up the Jell-O.

  "Pfft," she replied, and wrinkled her nose in disapproval. She plucked the glass out of his hand and tossed it aside as if it was a disgusting cockroach. "You look like the kind of man who appreciates a proper drink. I think I saw a bottle of whiskey in the other room." Stacy turned back to me. "What are you waiting for, birthday girl? The karaoke machine is cued up and waiting for you. Go sing your heart out. I'll help Logan here wet his whistle."

  Before I could protest, she linked her arm through Logan's and led him from the kitchen. He looked over his shoulder at me and gave a helpless shrug.

  My fists tightened as I watched them disappear into the crowd.

  Wet his whistle, I fumed to myself.

  Fine … if she wanted to get him a big-boy drink, maybe I'd up the ante and get him a big-boy smoke. I knew he appreciated cigars. Maybe he'd enjoy smoking something a little more exotic with me. I couldn't think of a more pleasant way for us to get better acquainted than over a joint.

  I ignored the karaoke contest and asked around to see if any of my friends had some pot. To my surprise, David was the only one who came prepared. The joint he gave me was short, thin, and bent out of shape from being wedged in his pocket all evening. It was hardly impressive, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

  I coughed and spluttered as I took my first drag. For all my claims of "experimental" behavior in college, the truth was I'd only smoked twice. So much for being edgy. David had to thump me on the back to help me catch my breath. I dried the tears from my eyes, fluffed up my hair, and marched off in search of Logan and Stacy.

  I didn't choke as much on the second puff. In fact, I felt decidedly woozy as the smoke filled my lungs. Hopefully I'd have my shit together and look cool by the time I got around to sharing the joint with Logan. Wherever the hell he was hiding.

  Down in the rec room a sappy love song played on the stereo. A bunch of people were slow-dancing. Through the sea of swaying bodies, I spotted Stacy with her face pressed to Logan's chest. Her bony arms were wrapped tight around his neck. He had one hand on her back. In the other he clutched a glass filled with the whiskey he'd been promised.

  How the hell had she tricked him into dancing? My first instinct was to storm over and break the two of them apart. I was halfway across the room when I stopped in my tracks. Causing a scene would only make me look like a fool at my own party. After all, I was supposed to be a mature and sophisticated young woman now. I'm sure I could come up with a more subtle and seductive way to get what I wanted.

  I dragged pothead David downstairs to the rec room and made him dance with me. All the while I kept one eye glued to Logan to see if he noticed me, to see if his face simmered with jealousy when he caught me in the arms of another man.

  David's Batman t-shirt was damp with sweat and infused with the skunky aroma of weed. We shuffled around, bumping into other couples on the makeshift dance floor. Maybe this wasn't such a brilliant plan after all. The two of us were having a hard time staying upright.

  In a tiny, sober corner of my mind I was appalled that this was my big "seductive" move. How sad was it that a few shots of Jell-O and a couple puffs of weed were all it took to obliterate my common sense.

  Before I could re-evaluate my strategy, Logan spotted me lurching about. With no time to think, I had to stick with Plan A: inspire jealousy in the man who had ditched me for Stacy.

  Clasping David's chubby cheeks between my palms, I kissed him hard.

  Ha! Take that Mr. Logan Worthington!

  Chapter 4

  I woke up on the couch with a splitting headache. Tucked beneath my ear were a set of stinky toes. The owner of those feet, David, lay at the opposite end. A trickle of morning drool glistened on his slack lips. My own tootsies were wedged between the cushions and his shoulder. Careful not to wake him, I swung my legs free.

  An empty pile of beer cans clattered and scattered as soon as I stood up. The sound was deafening in the stillness. There was a chorus of groans from all around me as people began to stir from the couches and recliners where they'd gone to sleep or had passed-out the night before.

  I shuffled across the carpet and threw back the curtains. The mid-morning sun felt ten shades too bright. I heaved open the windows to let some air into the stuffy room. Now that I was upright my head really began to kill me. Breakfast this morning would be a gallon of water and a handful of aspirin.

  I never thought of myself as much of a drinker, but last night had been a doozy. The party was awesome, from what little I could remember. Beyond a certain point my memories vanished into a hazy fog. I had a vague recollection of making-out with someone. Or was that a dream?

  Mercifully the bathroom was unoccupied. I collapsed onto the toilet, unsure if I wanted to pee or barf. Was it possible to do both at the same time? I braced myself with one hand on the sink and the other hand on the edge of the bathtub. The world kept spinning. My phone chimed in my jeans but the effort required to read text messages was way beyond my multitasking abilities.

  I washed my face and tried to comb the tangles out of my hair. I gave up after a few hopeless minutes and stepped out into the hallway. Sobriety returned the instant I collided into a broad, hard chest.

  "W-what are you doing here?" I stammered as Logan Worthington towered above me.

  Logan's hair looked just as messy as mine. His voice was rough and scratchy (and oh, so sexy) as he replied, "I was hoping you could tell me. I woke up under your father's pool table."

  I vaguely remembered inviting him in for Jell-O shots last night. But then what?

  "So much for being a responsible supervisor," he grumbled. "Your mother's never going to trust me again."

  "At least the house isn't a pile of rubble this morning," I said with a shrug. "You must have done something right."

  "That's nothing short of a miracle." He pushed his hand through his hair and made the rat's nest look even more adorable. "Are you finished?"

  I blinked. "I'm sorry?"

  "The bathroom. Are you finished in there? You're blocking the way."

  Ugh! I'd been standing in the doorway staring up at him like a lost puppy.

  Pull yourself together, Amber.

  I stepped aside and hurried down the hallway to take stock of the rest of the house. As I passed by the mess in the living room, and the kitchen, and the den, I wished—for one brief moment—that I'd celebrated my birthday quietly with some pizzas and a few Netflix movies.

  A few of my friends offered to stay behind to help with the clean-up. We managed to fill half a dozen garbage bags with bottles and beer cans. Unfortunately all the major stuff—the vacuuming, the scrubbing, the minor household repairs—that was all left to me once everyone said their goodbyes. I had the rest of the day to get the place ship-shape again before Mom and Dad returned, and I would need every precious second.

  Logan insisted on lending a hand. Whether he was acting out of guilt for getting shit-faced last night, or acting out of sympathy because he could see the daunting task ahead of me, I was unsure. Whatever the reason, I was grateful for his help.

  We divided the chores between us. While I mopped the sticky spills in the kitchen, Logan went outside to clear the trash from the backyard.

  My headache raged, and I wanted nothing more than to change into my jammies, crawl under the covers, and sleep for the next week. I prayed to God that no one had snuck into my room last night to have sex in my bed. Although, at this point, I didn't care who had been frolicking on
my sheets. All I craved was sweet, blissful oblivion.

  My phone chimed.

  I put the mop aside and browsed through the accumulated messages. Everyone was sending photos from the party. Most of them made me laugh. Some of them made me cringe, especially the ones where Mom's furniture looked like it was being put in perilous danger. I quickly deleted those; I didn't want her to have a cardiac.

  The text from Stacy had an attached video. You're gonna love this, her message said.

  I flopped onto the couch to watch. A blurry image filled the screen. The tinny sound of cheering could be heard in the background. The view came into focus and I found myself looking at a blonde head. The camera pulled back and I realized the head belonged to me. I was lying on top of someone on this very couch, engaged in a serious make-out session. The face of the person I was kissing was obscured by a cushion.

  Hoo-boy, looks like I got some action last night! Go, Amber!

  I snuggled deeper into the couch so I could enjoy the rest of the show. The camera zoomed in, close to my face. My tongue snaked into the mystery man's mouth. Damn, I was really going for it. A pair of hands reached up to caress my face. How the hell did I not remember any of this? I was getting totally turned on watching the grainy playback, and I was impatient to discover the identity of the lucky boy.

  At long last I came up for air. Everyone applauded. My make out partner sat up on his elbows and grinned at the crowd.

  Oh, God, no!

  I flung my phone across the room. It bounced and skidded across the carpet.

  I clamped my hands to my mouth. The sound of my cheering friends continued for another few seconds in the corner of the room. And then the playback ended.

  I looked out the patio window at Logan. He had removed his shirt so he could work more comfortably under the blazing mid-day sun. At any other time, the glimpse of his chiseled pecs and washboard abs would have been enough to drive me to distraction. But not after what I'd seen in the video.

  I grabbed my phone again and messaged Stacy back.

  WTF! How did this happen?