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I watch as he makes my drink—muddling the sugar and bitters, pouring the whiskey, and topping it with a twist of orange and a cherry. The ritual of it all is somehow comforting. He slides it over to me.
"Perfection," I say, and he seems pleased.
I reach down to grab the glass and before I can bring it to my lips, a woman catches my eyes. She grabs the empty seat next to me, and casually looks at the bar's menu.
I'm trying not to stare, but fuck, this is some woman.
Did I just say that my drink was perfection? Because I was clearly wrong. This woman sitting next to me is perfection incarnate.
I look around, hardly believing that she could be sitting here, alone. There's probably a boyfriend—or husband—about to walk up any minute. I'm bracing myself for the disappointment. I'm expecting it.
When I steal another look at her face, I notice that she seems familiar somehow.
Do I know her from somewhere? I'm wracking my brain for an answer when she speaks up.
"Can I really ask you anything, Trask?" she says, a smile forming on her lips.
Wait … that smile. Now I know why she looks so familiar. She looks so much like her mother.
"Amy?" I ask.
"I was wondering when you'd recognize me," she laughs.
"You look—"
She cuts me off. "Older?"
"You look good," I say.
"I'm not the frizzy-haired, braces-wearing 18-year-old kid you remember, right?" she continues, laughing.
If I'm honest, she's the opposite of that description in every possible way. Fuck, the woman sitting next to me is stunning. A halo of blonde hair frames her face. She's wearing a form-fitting, but classy black dress that shows off her every curve. She has an ass to die for; I'll tell you that much. I can picture myself squeezing it, a full cheek in each fist.
What?
Don’t look at me like that. Sure, she’s my stepdaughter. But that fucking dress. It’s wrapped to her body like wet tissue paper.
Its almost impossible to not be able to tell what she looks like fucking naked.
No, she's definitely not a kid anymore. I can't help but gaze at her perfect, round tits, and the way that they seem to be popping out of her dress—almost fighting with the fabric—and she catches me in the act of staring.
"I'm up here," she smiles.
I quickly look up, and act as if I don't know what she's talking about.
"Jesus," I say. "I just can't believe how grown up you are."
It's as if the surrounding people—the noise, the commotion, the bar, and everything has melted away and the only thing I can see and hear is Amy.
She smiles and seems to recognize the magnetic hold she has on me right now. She now has a drink in her left hand, and as she brings it to her lips, I quickly scan her finger for a ring, trying not to be too obvious about it. I don't see one.
"No husband?" I ask.
"I haven't found anyone worth marrying," she grins.
"That's a shame," I say.
"And why's that?" she asks, one eyebrow arching. "Maybe I don't want to be married."
