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“No more videos,” I nod. “But I can’t stop altogether. I’d go insane.”
“I know you would,” Julian chuckles. “I might join you for a ski weekend or something next week.”
“You should,” I say firmly.
The sad truth is that Julian’s relationship with me has become distant lately, especially in the last five years when he was spending a lot of time overseas, heading up our smaller UK office.
It’s understandable. He has a wife, two kids, and a whole life to be lived.
“One more thing,” Julian says in that evasive way that tells me he’s not coming skiing.
But again, I get this. If I had a family I cared about and was dedicated to, like Julian’s, then I wouldn’t mind staying home, either. He can’t just take off, mainly because he can’t simply uproot himself or his family to spend days at the ski lodge whenever he likes.
“Lay it on me,” I say.
“I told Lauren I’d show her your office. The view. She hasn’t seen it since she was little – when we first moved into this building.”
The last time I saw Lauren was at her fifteenth or sixteenth birthday party. I don’t remember much about her, except for how happy she was with the painting set somebody gave her.
She seemed shy, too, hiding in the corner at her own party, focused on her art.
“Sure,” I shrug, walking around the desk and dropping into my seat, stroking Buster when he comes over. “Is she still doing her art?”
“She’s training to be a tattooist,” Julian says proudly. “Well…if you consider practicing on yourself training.”
I laugh. My arms and much of my body are covered in tattoos, the same as Julian’s, except his sleek suit hides his, and my sport polo doesn’t.
“That’s some serious dedication. When does she want to see it?”
“She’s here now. I’ll just give her a quick look if that’s okay?”
“Of course.”
I take the tennis ball again, tossing it to Buster, as Julian walks across the office and opens the door.
Buster brings the ball back, but I can’t throw it or do anything except stare.
She’s walking toward me, the woman I’ve dreamed of.
She’s taking shape.
The best kind…curvy, her breasts pressed against her hoodie, her thick gorgeous thighs trapped in her jeans. Her face is exquisite, eyes wide, with a little twist to her mouth like she’s hiding a secret or getting ready to laugh.
Her hair begs for me to run my fingers through it, brown and wavy to her shoulders.
“See, Lauren,” Julian says, waving a hand at the window. “They’re as big as you remember.”
I drop the tennis ball.
Lauren looks over, raising her hand with a smile. “Hello, Mr. Stone.”
I clear my throat.
This is bad. This is wrong.
This woman can’t be Julian’s daughter.
Mywoman can’t be….
