MY FATHER'S FRIEND WANTS ME

Chapter Four: A Sin Worth Committing

Vicente

I have never been a man who leans.

And yet here I am, shoulder against the shelf, arms folded, doing absolutely nothing useful while Sophia moves through the aisle like she owns the place. Watching her. I tell myself it's casual.

I remember the night she was born. Daniel called me at half past midnight, voice cracking down the phone, saying it's a girl, Vicente, I have a daughter. I drove to that hospital in my pyjamas. We stood in the corridor passing a bottle of whiskey between us like idiots because neither of us knew what else to do with that much joy.

I remember she was four, maybe five the day Daniel was leaving my house after a visit. She grabbed the leg of my trousers and refused to let go, wailing about gummy bears, tears and snot running freely because she did not care, she wanted the gummy bears and she wanted to come home with me and those were the only two facts that mattered. Daniel had to peel her off while I stood there laughing until my ribs hurt.

When did that happen? When did that small, furious, gummy-bear-obsessed child become this?

Now she was all curves and attitude.

Beautiful in a way that felt dangerous. She is curved in every place a woman can be curved, and she carries it without the faintest idea of what it does to a room. To me.

The fitted jeans she wore hugged her ass so perfectly it took effort not to stare too long. Her white top rested against full breasts that rose every time she sighed in annoyance.

And f**k.

That mouth.

That sharp little mouth always tempting me into saying things I shouldn't

She's Twenty-three years old.

I am fifty-one.

Say it plainly: that's a sin.

I have always known what sin tastes like. But I have never wanted to commit one this badly.

She stops at a shelf, struggling to get out a price tag, scratching, and pulling but it would not budge. I walk up to her, take it from her and with one pull, i free it.

She turns and looks at me.

I hold it out. She takes it slowly, like she's deciding whether to acknowledge that just happened.

She looks at the price. Her eyes go wide.

"Shut." She says it under her breath, but I hear it. "This is way too expensive."

"I'll pay for two," I say. "Take them both."

She looks up at me then. That expression the one she's been perfecting since she was a teenager. The slow, deliberate smile that says she sees exactly what I'm doing and finds it beneath her.

"If you think you're impressing me," she says pleasantly, "it's not working."

She places one unit in the basket. Just one. Then she turns and walks away. I stay exactly where I am, watching her go.

I watch until she turns the corner of the aisle and disappears.

She picks everything she needs. I pay without discussion. We get back into the car and I drive and she sits with her things on her lap and stares out the window, and I don't push. I know how to be patient. It's one of the few virtues I have left.

Then, quietly, without looking at me: "Even though I'm furious with you and with my mother, thank you." A pause. "That is the last time you will ever hear me say that."

I smile. I can't help it. "We'll see."

She says nothing, but I catch the smallest movement at the corner of her mouth. Not a smile but almost.

Her phone rang. Rosa again. She picked up immediately, sitting straighter.

I kept my eyes on the road and listened without apology.

The project had been moved. San José. The presentation was in San José and Sophia had to be there or she'd lose the debate entirely.

She hung up. I felt the panic come off her before she said a word. That particular silence that isn't calm at all.

"I don't know anyone in San José," she said, mostly to herself. "I have nowhere to stay. I'm going to lose this."

"I have a house in San José. You can stay there until the debate is done. I'll speak to your father, he'll understand."

She turned to look at me. And laughed. "Stay in your house." She repeated it like she was checking she'd heard correctly. "I would rather fail than spend a single night under the same roof as the man sleeping with my mother."

"Sophia"

"And don't." Her voice went firm. "Don't call my dad. Don't explain anything to him. I don't need your help. I will get to San José and I will figure it out myself."

I said nothing. I pulled up to her gate, engine idling, and she was out of the car before it fully stopped. She grabbed her things, swung the door shut behind her, harder than necessary and walked through the gate without looking back.

I stayed parked.

My eyes followed her until she disappeared inside.

We'll see, I thought again.