Page 18 of Made for Wilde
The wine loosens my tongue before I can stop myself.
“He wasn’t alone.”
Sarah’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Your dad has a girlfriend?”
“No.” I drain half my glass in one go. “He was with his best friend. Koda.”
Recognition flashes in Sarah’s eyes. We’ve been friends long enough that she’s heard the name before.
“Wait, Koda? The guy you used to have that massive crush on when you were a teenager?”
Heat creeps up my neck.
“I didn’t have a massive crush.”
“Please.” Sarah rolls her eyes. “You spent an entire summer learning to fish just so you could go on their stupid camping trips.”
I can’t help the small smile that forms at the memory.
“I caught more trout than both of them.”
“Not the point.” Sarah refills my glass without asking. “So, your teenage fantasy man walked into your bar tonight. And?”
I stare into my wine and watch the burgundy liquid ripple.
“And nothing. He’s my dad’s best friend. He’s forty years old.”
“And apparently hot enough that you’re avoiding the question.”
The dam breaks.
“Ugh, Sarah, you have no idea. He’s... different. Or maybe I’m different. I don’t know.” I press my free hand against my flushed cheek. “He has this beard now, and his hair is longer. And his shoulders are like twice as wide as they used to be.”
Sarah leans back as a slow grin spreads across her face.
“Well, well, well. Look who still has a massive crush.”
“It’s not a crush.” I take another gulp of wine. “It’s... I don’t know what it is.”
Sarah leans forward again and sets her wine glass on the coffee table with a decisive clink.
“Charlotte, you’re not a kid anymore. There’s nothing wrong with being attracted to a hot mountain man.”
“But he’s my dad’s best friend.”
“So? You’re both adults.”
I shake my head and stand to pace our small living room.
“My dad would literally kill me for the thoughts I’m having right now,” I groan, covering my face with my hands. “Koda’s practically family. He’s been around since before I was born.”
Sarah snorts and takes another sip of wine. “Charlotte, he is not your family. He’s not your uncle or your cousin or your brother. He’s just a man who happens to be friends with your dad.”
“A man who taught me how to ride a bike and took me fishing and came to my sixth-grade graduation,” I counter, dropping back onto the couch. “It feels... wrong.”
“What feels wrong is how you’re torturing yourself.” Sarah sets her glass down. “Did he look at you differently tonight? Like, not as Jason’s little girl?”
