Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Operation Resist Super Hot Dad You Cannot Under Any Circumstances Have, Salivate Over, or Want is just starting.
Chapter four
Warrick
It’s an unfortunate employer indeed who isn’t even around when his brand-new employee starts.
I made sure I paid for movers so that Amalphia wouldn’t have to worry about anything and to be sure she didn’t hurt herself carrying heavy boxes. I wanted to make her transition as seamless as possible.
Maybe it was better that I was busy with our factories, had a business trip scheduled, and then had a scheduled vacation week—vacation being a completely inadequate descriptor—with my parents at their cabin in the Hamptons. It’s a family tradition. I couldn’t get out of it.
The less they know about what’s really going on in my life, the better, and that includes the work I’ve done to get Reginald into treatment for a gambling addiction that he may or may not have and then getting him into college for the fall. He wants to major in economics. I hope he’s going to turn things around and learn responsibility, but I have my doubts. I’m paying his tuition directly to the college, so really, he’d have no benefit of not going.
I can’t say I was more mature at twenty-two.
Never mind. Yes, I most certainly fucking can, but everyone has to grow up sometime. It’s better he does it now and not when he’s fifty or sixty. I can do nothing about Candice’s influence, but I can try to be there for him in small ways. Not to say I haven’t tried because I have, and none of it has worked, but giving up wasn’t the right option.
Giving up nearly meant disaster for Amalphia and her poor family.
I feel like the past few weeks have been spent checking items off a life shitlist.
I can honestly say pulling up in my own driveway has never felt so good.
For all of a minute anyway, until the garage door shuts behind me, and I’m reminded of the reality of my situation. My son’s ex-girlfriend is now living with me.
Alright, so she’s living in the pool house and working for me in an entirely professional capacity because it was the least I could do, not because I’m some pervy asshole who thinks he can get something out of it. I swear this was done entirely out of the goodness—alright, I mean guilt—of my heart and nothing more.
Amalphia is the kind of real-life beauty that is in your face—haunting, alluring, and lovely. She begs to be worshipped, but she’s not the kind of woman who is tempting. A person can appreciate another person’s beauty without doing anything about it. Take art for example. That’s what she is.
She’s like living art. Beautiful. Untouchable. Enchanting.
Do regular people get hard-ons for artwork?
Yeah, that’s probably a bad comparison.
Even if she wasn’t my son’s ex-girlfriend, she’s over a decade younger than me.
I made all my mistakes young and took firm control of my life. End of story.
It would be immeasurably helpful if I could get Amalphia’s grandmother’s comments about meatloaf out of my head. If I hadn’t thought about it during work meetings and every fucking hour of my time at my parents’ cabin. Good thing having my mother around immediately deflated boner problems before they even became a thing.
“Amalphia?” I shout loudly, letting her know I’m here. I don’t want to sneak up on her. It would be better if we had a routine or some kind of protocol, but as it is, she has been my housekeeper for over a week, and I’ve been MIA.
She’s had the house to herself.
Why does it feel wrong to enter it, as if I’m the intruder?
No one is an intruder. Don’t make this weird.
There’s no answer. The house is open wherever it can be physically unrestrained by walls without falling in on itself. All the glass, metal, and tall ceilings are great for acoustics. If I were in a band, I’d probably appreciate it a lot more.
It’s very much like my office. White walls, a few pieces of art here and there, furniture where it’s needed. The upstairs is just as stark. The basement, where no one ever sees or goes, is a different story. The basement is solely my space. It sounds silly in a house that I own and live in alone, but this way, when my parents come over, or if I’m ever required to have work colleagues drop in, or any other unexpected visitors, what they see on the surface is the boring, regular rich dude with zero skeletons.
The basement…
Okay, I do not have skeletons in the basement.
Just a bunch of junk and personal effects. Everything that makes me, me.
I might be a weirdo, but try growing up in a family like mine, and you’ll understand why you need a bug-out hole in your own fucking home.