Page 56 of Pucking One Night Stand

“Don’t get clever with me, young lady. I’ve told you, while you live under my roof, you live un-”

“-der your rules,” I finish, approaching the table and snatching a piece of bacon off his plate like some kind of breakfast pirate. “Yeah, I know. You keep telling me.”

He narrows his eyes, and I do the mature thing. I drop into the chair opposite him, pour myself coffee like nothing’s happening, and try to channel the patience of a woman who hasn’t just walked out of her office still aching from the best sex of her life.

“So,” he asks, like the world’s nosiest prosecuting attorney. “Where have you been all night? I was worried.”

I sip my coffee, steeling myself for the usual parental inquisition. “Dad, for God’s sake. It’s none of your business. When are you going to accept I’m not a little girl? I’m twenty-two years old.”

He takes a deep breath, leans back, and I watch him do that thing where he tries to calm himself before saying something dramatic. “That may be. But you’re still my little girl.”

“Oh, Dad. You’re so sweet. Now pass the bacon, please.”

“No.” He levels a stare at me and sits down. “This is not over just because you want it to be.” He finishes his coffee and takesa deliberate bite of his breakfast like we’re in the middle of some kind of standoff and the food is Switzerland.

I want out of this conversation. I really do. But bacon exists. And so does coffee. And I’m not about to let either go to waste just to avoid a dad-rant.

So, classic me, subject change. I toss it like a grenade. “Dad?”

“What?” he mutters, chews, finishes his coffee, then folds his newspaper like it’s going to be graded for neatness.

I keep eating. Eggs, toast, the whole works. But I don’t take my eyes off him. I just keep staring.

He huffs. “What are you staring at?”

“What’s different about you?”

He groans. “Uh? I’ve—” he runs a hand through his hair “—I’ve had a haircut.”

I lean in, squinting. “Oh wow... You look so much more handsome. I’m impressed.”

His face does that weird thing where it looks like it’s trying to simultaneously short-circuit and combust. “Yes…umm… thank you.”

I sip my coffee, extra slow. “So, when are you going to find yourself a lady friend? I’ve seen the way women look at you. You'd be a real catch.”

Now he’s the one who wants to vanish. He starts unfolding his newspaper again, then refolds it like the act might transport him to another dimension. “You think you’re very clever, don’t you?”

“Well,” I say, locking eyes with him. “I was taught by the best.”

He gets up, pushes his chair back, and makes his way toward the door. “You and me. We’ll talk later.”

But just as he passes, he rests a hand on my shoulder. The room is quiet. His voice drops. “But I do love you.”

And then he’s gone.

I sit there with a smug little smile twisting my lips. He’s like putty in my hands.

That is… until I remember the one thing that he doesn't know. The one thing that’s going to crack the sky wide open.

Oh shit…

Feeling slightly dizzy, I finish my breakfast like it’s my last meal on death row, each bite heavier than the last. Martha comes in, her apron on and her eyes bright with that permanent look of someone who knows way more than she ever admits. She starts clearing the plates but pauses when she gets to me.

That look. The one where it feels like she’s x-raying your soul. “Well,” she says, with that calm, syrupy voice that only ever means trouble. “I must say you handled that well this morning.”

And that’s when it hits.

That low, creeping nausea that’s been threatening to strike since bacon bite number two.