Page 10 of Role Play (Off the Books #1)

“I’ve been on this planet for fifty-four years, and I’m still convinced she’s the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

Now my jaw falls open in shock. “That’s so sweet. See? How come you can’t say stuff like that directly to Mom? Then we could have one birthday dinner with all of us.”

He’s quiet for a while, pensiveness seeping into the lines between his brows. “Is she seeing anyone these days?”

I cock my head to the side, having a hard time reading the obvious writing on the wall.

Dad wants to know if Mom is single? That can’t be right.

Mortal enemies aren’t usually concerned with their nemesis’s relationship status.

Then again, enemies to lovers is all I tend to hear about on bookish social media. Maybe there’s something to it.

“No. She hasn’t dated anyone since Richard. They ended a year ago.”

He perks up in his chair. “Why?”

“He was nice, but boring. Too much of a couch potato. They had an amicable breakup.”

Sucking in his lips, Dad bobs his head. He waits a moment longer, maybe not wanting to seem too eager, then he asks, “Do you think I’m a couch potato?”

“Yes.” My answer slips out before I can collect it. “But like a refined potato. You’re a rosemary, parmesan Duchess couch potato if that helps.”

“Jenni— your mom always wanted us to take a family trip to South Korea. She wanted to show us where she grew up and where your grandparents are buried. Eat street food, shop at the local markets, sightsee, hike…a lot of non-couch-potato activities.”

I nod. “I know. She still talks about going sometimes.”

“We should’ve done it back then.” His mouth tenses into a grimace, like he’s fighting off an unwelcome emotion that’s reared its ugly head. “Maybe for your birthday next year, you, me, and your mom can take a trip. What do you think?”

I think even if hell froze over, Mom wouldn’t entertain the idea of spending time with Dad. “When’s the last time you talked to her?”

“I texted her about a month ago, letting her know I’d be in town today.”

I quirk one brow. That’s news. Mom tells me everything, but she didn’t tell me that. “And what did she say?”

“Nothing, just a ‘read’ receipt.” Dad averts his gaze.

If she won’t return a text, a fun-filled international family vacation is certainly out of the question. “What are you saying right now? You miss Mom all of a sudden?”

He releases a deep exhale. “I tried dating. I joined a site.”

I want to ask him which site but I don’t know if I can really stomach the visual of Dad on Tinder, so I sidestep further inquiry. “Cool…cool. Are you ordering another whiskey sour?”

“The women are… I don’t know. Dating is different when you’re in your fifties.”

Apparently we are having this conversation. Fantastic. I grab my own cocktail and guzzle down the remnants of the berry Cosmo with lavender syrup. “How is it different?”

“I put in my age and interests, assuming my matches would be women in their fifties as well. But oddly, most of the women who message me are in their twenties and thirties. We have nothing in common. I’m not sure what to talk about. It’s unclear what they’re after.”

Wrong. It’s crystal clear: his wallet. But I don’t want to cheapen his efforts or hurt his feelings. “Oh, come on, Dad. You’re a catch.”

“I’m old. I don’t know what these young women want from me.”

“Age-gap romance is in right now. You’re like a svelte Santa Claus…just not as cheery.”

Dad flattens his expression, thoroughly unamused at my joke. “Age gap?”

“Yeah. You’re in your zaddy era.”

“Zaddy?” Dad parrots. “Are you still speaking English?”

I chuckle under my breath. Dad’s always the most confident—sometimes arrogant—man in the room. It’s endearing to see him a little insecure about this. “It means women of all ages are attracted to confidence and sophistication.”

“Hmph,” he grunts. “Well, it’s bizarre. I find myself wanting to talk to someone about it. Maybe even laugh with someone or get advice about how to navigate this. But at the end of the day…”

“Mom was the only person you ever really talked to, huh?”

“Your mother was the only person in this world I ever felt connected to. I always lived with my head in the clouds, my mind in a different dimension. But your mom had a way of keeping me tethered to this earth. I didn’t realize what a gift that was until recently.”

He seems to shrink right in front of me.

The great J.P. Cooper, humbled by the love he let get away.

My dad never cheated on my mom, to my knowledge.

He was never abusive. Dad was simply absent, and my mom got tired of begging for his attention.

Writing was his true love and commitment, his wife—simply a mistress.

“Do you want me to talk to her?”

I was not anticipating his eager nod of agreement. “Would you?”

I thread my fingers together, rotating my thumbs like a proud mafia boss. My dad is my latest victim, and I have him right where I want him. “I will…under one condition.”

“Being?” He raises both brows, before he throws back the rest of his drink.

“Give me one real , honest piece of advice, author to author.”

“My pockets are deep, Sora. All you want is career advice?”

I let out a low growl of frustration. “No, Dad, what I want is for you to take me under your wing. I want to sit down and do writing sprints with you. I want to drink whatever brand of coffee you do so I can also piss excellence. But every single time I bring up this topic, you shut me out. Do you realize how cruel that is? You’re the J.P.

Cooper . Your only daughter can’t get her author career off the ground, and you could help me if you wanted to, but instead you’ve left me in the dust. Why ? ”

Dad plants both elbows on the table. He wraps one hand around his fist and rests his chin on his knuckles. He takes a few steadying breaths. “You want my advice?”

“Desperately,” I reiterate.

“Quit.”

One word clobbers my heart and it shatters into a million pieces. “Quit?” I echo in a weak whisper. What are the chances that Dad actually picked up a romance book I wrote, read it, and then decided the only solution to my problem was throwing in the towel? “Because I’m that bad?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know what kind of writer you are, Sora.”

“If only there were a simple solution to that,” I snark.

He ignores me and continues, “But what I can tell you is that you’re too much like me.

You’re looking for validation in all the wrong places, and this career you want is going to ruin your life.

The odds are against you, and failure is all but imminent.

If there is anything else in this world you can do that will bring you a sliver of joy and satisfaction…

do that instead . Don’t torture yourself. ”

I don’t even bother fighting my tears. I let my eyes water so Dad can see what he caused. “Thanks, Dad. Great advice.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you?—”

“It’s fine. I asked for honesty…I got it.”

The silence between us becomes deafening. I finally addressed the elephant in the room, but it didn’t go away, it only got bigger. I’m no longer in the mood for dessert. I really just want this evening to be over.

“May I give you your birthday present now?”

I could be a petulant adult child. My dad hurt my feelings and I think I’m well within my right to make a scene.

But I can’t ignore the fact that he’s here.

I’m well past childhood. My father owes me nothing.

Yet, he’s trying to connect. How many daughters would kill for their father to make an effort?

“This dinner is more than present enough. It means a lot to me that you flew all the way here to spend time with me.”

His lips twitch into a smile as he reaches into his pocket. “Dinner is dinner. This is your present.” He dangles a set of keys before setting them on the table and sliding them toward me.

“Please tell me these unlock a treasure chest,” I joke as I scoop up the two silver keys, identical in shape.

“The brownstone. It’s yours.”

My soul floats right out of my body. For a few moments I swear I’m staring at my own jaw, mopping the floor of the restaurant. When my speechless, catatonic state simmers, I croak out, “Are you serious?”

“I am.”

Dad’s brownstone in the West Village was worth millions when he bought it after the divorce. In the twelve years since, it’s doubled in value. “Where are you going to live?” I ask.

“LA, for the time being. The studio wants me to stay close as a consultant on set when filming starts.”

“It’s a lot of house for one person,” I mention.

“So fill it. But with people, not stories.”

“What?” I ask, rotating the keys in my hands, watching the dim glow of the overhead chandelier reflecting in the silver.

“I spent so much time lost in the fantastical worlds I built on page, I forgot to live my real life. While I have brief moments of happiness, like tonight, I’m not a happy man. Don’t be like me, Sora. Be better.”

I don’t understand the sadness in his eyes. He sacrificed a lot for his career, but it paid off in spades. Dad has fame, fortune, and a legacy that every author alive envies.

What the hell could he possibly be regretting?