Page 1 of Accidental Dad’s Best Friend (Unintentionally Yours #7)

Izzy

I stand in front of my clown house mirror in my underwear and panties.

Clothes are strung around the floor like wrapping paper on Christmas.

And I ask myself out loud the question that’s been on repeat in my head ever since I got the surprise of my life phone call from Ethan Savage:

“What does one wear on a date with the man they’ve been crushing on for most of their life?”

Unfortunately, Ethan isn’t just any man.

He’s a wealthy, sexy, silver fox of a man.

At 18 years older than me, he is forbidden.

It’s not appropriate, even if his penetrating blue eyes have a way of shooting fire-dipped arrows into my heart and soul (all the while grazing other places of my anatomy).

I mean, I’ve known this man my entire life, for fuck’s sake.

When I was making my way into the world, he was walking across a stage accepting his high school diploma.

But wait. It gets even worse.

He’s my dad’s best friend.

I know, I know. It’s so bad. But trust me, men in their late twenties and even early thirties got nothing on Ethan Savage.

His name alone implies that he is a gentleman capable of unsavory things, things I have thought about while laying in bed at night many times, just me, my phone and a vibrator.

A vibrator that if I had to guess holds no candle to Ethan himself.

I mean, the man is six four, lean and toned.

His gelled hair and fitted suit say, “I am distinguished.” But his eyes?

And that smirk? God. That smirk alone says, “Come here.”

I realize I am going to have to change my panties if I don’t stop thinking about him and rummage through the pile of discarded clothes again.

Everything business pants and blouses to summer skirts and even a couple evening gowns.

But again, I don’t know what I am supposed to wear.

The phone call, which was actually a voicemail because I was in the shower, took me by so much surprise that, once I listened to it, I couldn’t for the life of me pull myself together again.

“Isabelle. It’s Ethan. I’m sure you’re wondering why I am calling.

Don’t worry, it’s not to give you shit about working for a fashion magazine, which by the way, your father cringes about that daily.

Actually, I was wondering if we could chat.

Business talk. I have a proposal for you of sorts.

If you’re available, I’d love to meet for drinks.

Give me a call and we can make the arrangements. ”

The implications around the voicemail peppered it with more red flags than a fucking golf course.

He started with an insult about my job, though I’m not surprised.

Most of the guys at Next Big Thing, Denver’s hottest business magazine, don’t look too highly on fashion magazines.

To be honest, it wasn’t really my cup of tea either.

But I was fresh out of college, desperate for a job, and Slay tossed glitter in my eyes along with big numbers and I took the job.

That was mistake number one.

The thing about Ethan Savage is he is equal parts charming and arrogant.

The way he said the word ‘chat’ like this is casual.

It’s anything but casual. We never talk.

I have actually made a point of avoiding him for the last ten years, for one because he’s a dick.

And two…I can’t stop thinking about that dick. Insert palm face here.

Then there’s the word ‘available’ which is gushing with implications of its own.

Not to mention ‘proposal’ and ‘arrangements’.

Not to mention, him calling me Isabelle.

Ever since I was little, I’ve hated my formal name and anyone who ever spoke to me knew that.

Ethan was on the top of the list of people that knew me and when I defiantly corrected him, he’d smirk that smirk and hold his hands up innocently saying,

“My bad, Izzy-not-Isabelle.”

Long story short, I listened to this voicemail no less than twelve times before hovering my finger over the call button. Ultimately, I chickened out and texted him instead.

Izzy- Hey Ethan! Sorry I missed your call. I was in the shower.

Insert second palm face here. Like, tell me you sound like a teenage girl without telling me you sound like a teenage girl. Did he imagine me naked?

Ethan: No worries. There’s a chic little cocktail lounge on sixteenth called Backporch. Are you familiar?

Familiar, sure. I mean as of a week ago I can’t afford to go there but with its swanky atmosphere and extravagant cocktail menu, I’ve obviously heard of it.

Izzy: The one on the Hyatt rooftop?

Ethan: That’s the one. So what do you say? We can grab a drink, catch up…

The ellipses threw me and I hate to admit it but my heart tripped over its own feet. Nothing is more implicative than ellipses. They’re the grammatical trail off…a literally eyebrow waggle if you will.

I swallowed hard and punched in the most level headed response I could manage, thankful we weren’t having the conversation over the phone.

Izzy: I thought you said it was a business proposal.

Ethan: And it is. But we’re friends. No reason we have to spend the entire evening boring each other.

Friends. Ethan is a lot of things. My dad’s best friend and business partner.

And thanks to his cocky attitude paired inconveniently with the fact that I can’t look at him or even think about him without biting my lower lip, he is complicatedly more than that.

A question mark at best and an obligatory enemy at worst. But friends? I literally snorted a laugh at that.

Ethan: I’ll tell you what. You meet me at Backporch on Thursday evening, let’s say 8:30. I’ll buy you a drink and give you the spiel. And if you aren’t sick of me after that, I’ll buy you dinner too. Sound like a deal? I hear their lemon chicken is phenomenal.

My mouth watered at that. He knows food is my love language.

Not that any of my languages are his concern.

But still. Jobless has me barreling towards hopelessness at this point and a meal that doesn’t come out of a box with the instructions “puncture film and heat for three minutes” sounded very, very appealing at that point.

Izzy: Deal.

I sent my response before I had time to overthink it. Which leads me to now. Standing in front of a mean mirror searching in vain for an outfit that doesn’t look too anything while kicking myself for saying yes.

Whoever said the camera adds ten pounds apparently never looked in a mirror. Pretty damn sure the mirror adds twenty five. Granted, I did buy this mirror at a Bargain Mart in the five dollar section and it’s worse than the ones in department store dressing rooms.

Eventually, I decide on a short black dress that is fitted on top and flowy on the bottom.

The pink flowers set against black say feminine without being too girly (Izzy-not-Isabelle, remember?) and the empire waist gives the illusion that I have a waist. Hourglass is an understatement but this dress feels good on me so I go with it.

I also touch up my makeup, run my hands through my strawberry blond curls that won’t behave no matter what so why bother, and head out the door.

Backporch is everything I imagined. With the dim lights, jazzy music, glowing bar top and high value city people, it’s the kind of place my old boss loved.

A place I only stepped foot into if the tab was being picked up by a company card.

I did alright for myself but not Backporch alright.

Not twenty four dollar gin and tonic with muddled berries alright.

I glance down at my phone just as a text from Ethan comes in.

Ethan- I’m a minute behind. Damn Denver traffic. Drop my name when you get there, I’ve reserved a table. Oh and order yourself a drink. See you soon, Isabelle.

The last word grinds on me in contradictory ways. He knows I hate that name. He’s also the only one who can give me goosebumps when he says it. I can’t even hear his voice but I can fucking feel it.

I shove my phone in my pocket and cross my legs as the hostess greets me.

“Welcome to Backporch. Do you have a reservation?” She’s a tiny thing, with pin straight black hair and plum lipstick. Her manicured red nails are so long I’m surprised they work on the tablet in front of her. I brush a rebellious hair behind my ear and offer a smile back.

“Yes.”

Her fake eye-lash rimmed gaze darts up to mine and it’s very clear her smile is forced. “Name?”

Right.

“Savage.”

There’s a flicker of something on her face. She knows him. I mean, I’m not surprised. But I think she’s surprised that I do.

“Right this way,” she says, grabbing two menus and a cocktail menu.

I follow her through the tiny tables to a leather booth near the back.

He would choose one in the corner, in the dark, where no one can see us.

He probably feels weird being seen with me at all.

I am a recent literally flop, after all.

An Andie Sachs if Andie had tanked before her make-over.

“Food menu here, assuming you’re hungry,” she says as she sets it in front of me. “And libations.”

With that, Wednesday Adams walks back to the host stand and I let out a breath, immediately remembering why I hate places like that. I love good food. And I love a good cocktail. But I don’t love the people who love those things if that makes sense. I much prefer the local place by my house.

A waiter greets me, a young guy with a perfectly trimmed goatee, dark hair dyed to look silver on top, and a diamond stud in one ear.

“Hello hello,” he sings and immediately I prefer him over Morticia over there. “Thirsty?”

“So thirsty,” I say with a sigh as my eyes skim over the fancily named drinks. “I’ll take the…Jane Russell.”

“Good choice. Not the most popular thing on the menu but one of the classics if you ask me.”

“I like the name too.” I add.

“Nobody knew what they wanted like Miss Russell, am I right?”

I smile as he walks off to put in my drink order.

And for a moment, I relax. For a moment, I forget while I am here.

I forget that I lost my job for being too real and too honest. I forget that despite dining on Marie Callender’s for the last couple weeks and canceling my streaming subscriptions and resorting to boxed-not-bottled wine and clipping coupons (that’s still a thing.

Who knew that was still a thing?), this bill is going to be covered and I could probably order caviar if I wanted and Ethan would pay for it.

I actually forget that for the first time in I don’t know how many years I am about to see Ethan Savage in about?—

Well. Now.

Just as the flamboyant little waiter sets down my drink, Ethan approaches the table.

He’s wearing a fitted suit that is so fucking fitted, his chest (among other things) are show cased right in front of me.

And I realize, this man looks even better than he did the last time I saw him.

At forty—what is it now? Eight—he looks leagues better than he did ten years ago and suddenly I am having a hard time controlling my expression.

His hair, more pepper than salt, is slicked back on the sides, long enough that some strays hang loose around his forehead which, by the way, is not receding.

His jawline, with it’s just past five o clock shadow, is sharp as ever.

Damon Salvator sharp. Could cut mangos sharp.

Could sever the rope of a noose sharp. You get the picture.

But it’s those eyes. Eyes the color of the sky just before it rains, a gray area between blue and steel, that stops me. Stop me from words, from smiling, from doing anything but gaping up at him.

“Hello Isabelle,” he says.

Crickets. I mean, I got nothing at this point. So he goes on.

“Is that a Negroni? I like it. I’ll take one of those.” He nods at the waiter before sitting down in front of me.

“It's called a Jane Russell here.” And I have to cross my legs because while my mouth is dry as the Saraha, my panties are like the Niagara Falls.