Vince:No, this is staying hypothetical.
Gary:Andrew Parker. He's not on socials, loves, don't bother.
Vince:For fuck's sake, Gary.
Todd:I knew it!
Vince:You can’t say anything, Todd. Work is work. Be professional.
Todd:I totally saw this coming.
Vince:Thank you all for being grownass adults and failing miserably to help me with my pants problem.
Gary:Think about Sam and get over it, hun.
Aubrey:Switch to cold showers.
Eli:Rub one out before work each day.
Wayne:Go buy Sam some nice pants and just enjoy the innocent fun with your coworker, man. You got this.
Cynthia:We love you, baby!
Vince:Thanks. Love you too.
Aubrey:Damn. I just checked. He's not on socials. :(
Vince:You all suck.
Chapter 9
The Matter Progresses Favorably
Vince
Andyasksmetohave lunch with him tomorrow, and I can't stop thinking about it. He's adorable when he asks. It's like he almost doesn't have the nerve to say it.
I can tell I make him a little nervous, though I don't know why. Andy seems headstrong, outspoken, able to take my jokes without flinching, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he fires back with that dry wit that's caught me off guard more than once. His hesitation isn't about that; it's something deeper, a vulnerability that flickers behind his carefully composed expression when he thinks I'm not looking. I've noticed how he straightens his already impeccable shirt when I approach, howhe runs a hand through his blonde hair in a gesture that's both casual and calculated. It's in these small moments that I see the cracks in his armor, the parts of him that remain hidden from the rest of the world but seem to surface when I'm near.
And then he goes and occasionally surprises me out of nowhere, like how he flirted with me at the concession table today.
I replay the moment—the way his fingers brushed against mine when we both reached for the same bottle of water, the deliberate lingering that sent electricity shooting up my arm. His voice dropped an octave when he leaned in to whisper something about the catering, his breath warm against my ear, and for a split second, I forgot where we were, forgot about the cameras rolling just feet away, forgot about Samantha waiting for me at home.
I fantasize about throwing him onto the plates of food and devouring him like one of those Caesar wraps I'd watched him devour a few days ago.
The thought comes unbidden, vivid and visceral. I can almost taste the salt on his skin, feel the way his muscles would tense beneath my touch, hear the breathy sounds he might make. I imagine the shock on his face, followed by something else—maybe surprise, maybe delight, maybe both—as I press him against the table, the plastic forks and paper plates scattering around us.
The fantasy is so intense that I have to physically shake my head to clear it, my heart racing as I realize just how far gone I am. It's not just attraction anymore; it's a hunger that gnaws at me, a craving that grows stronger with every shared glance, every accidental touch, every conversation that feels more intimate than the last.
"Hey, Dad," Malia says from the passenger seat, eyes glued to her phone as I drive her back to her mom. Kaitlynn has some reading group meeting tonight, so I get taxi duty.
"What's up?"
"You seem weird lately."
I laugh, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. You've been spacing out a lot. I feel like you're not telling me something."
