Page 51 of Role Play (Off the Books #1)

Forrest

The moment my eyes lock with J.P. Cooper’s, I feel like I’ve been hit by a freight train—if freight trains wore designer glasses and had perfect salt-and-pepper hair.

Here I am, an escort with a law degree, standing in front of one of the world’s most celebrated authors, who also happens to be my fake girlfriend’s father.

A fake girlfriend who is currently staring at her parents—together—with her mouth hanging open so wide you could park a small aircraft carrier in it.

“Mom? Dad?” Sora squeaks, still clutching my hand like it’s the last life vest on the Titanic. “What are you doing here? Together?”

Jennifer Cho recovers first, smoothing her elegant silk blouse with a practiced calm that reminds me of Sora whenever she’s flustered. “What a lovely surprise, Sora,” she says, switching seamlessly back to a dialect devoid of an accent. “And who is this handsome man?”

I gather my wits and extend my hand, trying not to look like someone who gets paid to take his clothes off for a living. “Forrest Hawkins, ma’am. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

J.P. Cooper doesn’t rise to shake my hand. Instead, he studies me with the unnerving intensity of someone who makes a living dissecting human nature—or possibly dissecting frogs in his spare time. “Pleasure,” he says, his voice deep and measured.

“Dad, remember how you like me to tell you when you’re being rude?” Sora warns.

“Sorry. Soju and gravity making me lazy,” he grumbles, thoroughly chastised by his daughter.

He rises to his feet, his full frame more burly than I expected.

Disguised as a handshake, he tries to pulverize the bones in my hand to ash.

“Nice to meet you, Forrest. I’m J.P.—please spare me from the Mr. Cooper nonsense. How about you two join us for dinner?”

Sora, satisfied at the greeting, finally releases my other hand to slide onto the cushion across from her parents.

I follow, peeved at the low table that won’t hide my jittery legs.

I’ve met plenty of clients’ parents and family members before.

Endless weddings, bah mitzvahs, anniversaries, pretending to be in love with a client I barely knew, but this?

It’s different. Because I want to give an actual good impression.

And the only thing I’ve done today to prepare for this big moment in Sora’s and my weird relationship is finger-fuck her until she was sated in a dirty paintball equipment shed. Not ideal.

“So, Dad, when did you get into town?” Sora asks nonchalantly.

“Yesterday, actually. I swung by the brownstone to see you today, but there was no answer,” J.P. says so casually.

“You didn’t just go in?” Sora asks, the color slowly draining from her face.

“No, it’s your home now. Why would I do that?”

“Forrest is living with me at the brownstone,” she blurts out in a hurry, abandoning any prior sense of cool. She clasps her hands over her face, like she can cover her guilty confession. “And his little daughter,” she murmurs between split fingers.

We’re momentarily saved by our waitress returning with two small glasses of ice water with lemon. She asks if we want any alcoholic beverages and our answers couldn’t be more different.

“No, thank you,” Sora says, “but a Coke Zero, please?”

“And for you, sir? The same?” the waitress asks me. I catch her eyes, flashing her a pleading look that says: Save me .

“Oh, no. Bring me alcohol, please.”

“What kind?” she asks.

I shrug, evidence of my discomfort visible all over my face. “Doesn’t even matter. Surprise me.”

She laughs and then turns her attention to Sora’s parents. Her mother proceeds to ask about chef specials, and I steal a momentarily private audience with Sora.

“Really? Just jumped in with the admission?” I ask under my breath. “Couldn’t let me warm up the crowd first?”

“Sorry,” she mutters. “My mom is a human lie detector test. It’s better to be up-front.”

“Even so, I think there are some things we need to keep to ourselves tonight, yeah?” I widen my eyes at her.

She nods, visibly shaken.

“Do you mind if I order for the table? J.P. doesn’t know his favorites, but I do,” Ms. Cho says, addressing me and Sora, but her gaze is on me.

“Not at all.”

Ms. Cho starts ordering in fluent Korean, way too much food. The only thing I can understand is when she finishes by requesting a round of apple soju.

“It’s sweet, you’ll like it,” Sora assures me.

There’s pretty much just uncomfortable silence until the waitress returns with the first round of drinks.

“One won’t kill you, Sora,” Ms. Cho urges, grabbing the green glass bottle and pouring the clear liquid into four shot glasses. “Come on, we’re celebrating.”

“Celebrating what, exactly?” Sora asks, pointing between her parents. “Last I heard you weren’t returning Dad’s texts. Now he’s visiting again, and you two are on a date?”

“Right, good assist with that, kiddo,” J.P. mutters.

Sora blushes. “I was going to talk to her for you, Dad. I got distracted.”

J.P. lifts a brow. “Distracted? And here I thought his name was Forrest.” He smirks at his not-that-funny joke.

“Anyway, I flew in because we’re celebrating your mom’s recent promotion.

” He raises his shot glass and tips it at each of us, before falling into a speech.

“This woman is an enigma. Graceful, tender, soft, warm, yet fierce like a knight in the face of battle. Battle being the sexist pigs at her office, determined to keep their glass ceilings in place. Nonetheless, with wit, charm, and the most beautiful soul, she crashes through their crystal walls, every single time. Jennifer— Cho, Min-Ja —cheers to finally getting the recognition that is so long overdue for you, my sweetheart.”

Following J.P.’s lead, I throw back the shot, expecting something akin to the smoothness of vodka. Instead, it’s sweet and deceptively mild—the kind of drink that’ll have you on the floor before you realize what’s happening.

I turn to Sora. “That was really good. I think—” I stop short when I see her bewildered expression, her shot glass still full, teetering between her fingers. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

“What the hell kind of speech was that?” she asks accusingly, looking between her mother and father.

“I thought it was quite nice,” her mother chimes in.

“Yeah, too nice . Is no one else concerned that an alien parasite might be safe-harboring in Dad’s body right now?”

Ms. Cho shrugs. “It’s crossed my mind, but I prefer the parasite to the old version of your dad.” She proceeds to fill her glass again, a playful grin on her face as she refills the other empty soju glasses, mine included. “Drink up. It’s bad luck to leave it on the table,” she tells her daughter.

Begrudgingly, Sora throws back her shot like it’s water, not reminiscent of a girl who rarely drinks.

“So,” J.P. strikes up, setting down his glass with deliberate precision, “you’re living with my daughter at my house?”

“Dad, I thought you just said it was my house now?” Sora warns. “And it’s not like that.”

“On the contrary, it’s exactly like that,” he counters. “You share a residence. That’s the definition of living together.”

I clear my throat. “Sir, I should explain. Sora has been kind enough to let me and my daughter, Dakota, stay with her temporarily. My ex left the country?—”

“Left her four-year-old daughter behind,” Sora adds.

“—and Sora offered her home as an alternative. My old apartment isn’t suitable now that I have my daughter full-time.

And you know how real estate is in New York City.

” I run a hand through my hair, painfully aware of J.P.

’s penetrating stare. “It’s been a tremendous help.

But it won’t be forever. I realize how that sounds, taking advantage of Sora’s generosity, but?—”

“Son, calm down,” J.P. interrupts. “You’re not on trial. We’re glad Sora’s making new…friends. Daphne is a bit much, even in small doses.”

“You’ve met her like four times ever,” Sora grumbles.

“Case in point,” he sasses back. “Anyway, Mr. Hawkins, what do you do for work?”

The million-dollar question. I feel Sora tense beside me.

“Financial consulting,” I answer smoothly. “Mostly private clients.”

“Private clients,” J.P. repeats, turning the phrase over like he’s examining a suspicious object. “Must be lucrative. You and Jennifer have a lot in common. Same field.”

My face fills with heat. Oh shit. Sora didn’t tell me her mom’s profession is my fake one. I scramble, racking my brain for any finance jargon I can pull out of my ass in a hurry.

“It pays the bills,” I say, keeping my expression neutral despite the sudden warmth crawling up my neck.

Luckily the conversation steers to Dakota, which is an easy topic for me.

Ms. Cho asks questions about Dakota’s milestones, her hobbies and interests, enthused, like she’s her own grandchild.

Conversation flows easily until the first round of food arrives.

Banchan as Ms. Cho explains it—small side dishes that precede the main meal.

She immediately begins describing each one, her hospitality overshadowing her ex-husband’s somewhat grumpy demeanor.

“This is kimchi, fermented cabbage. And here we have japchae, sweet potato noodles. This one is quite tasty,” she exclaims, pointing to a vibrant red dish.

“Forrest doesn’t like spicy food,” Sora interjects, trying to come to my rescue as her mom pushes little silver bowl after bowl my way.

Ms. Cho balks, shock filling her face like she’s a touch offended. “Kimchi isn’t spicy. Galbi Grill has the best banchan. Very mild.”

Sora groans. “She’s lying to you, Forrest. Run from kimchi.”