My Husband’s Dad Wants Me

Chapter 2

When I got home, Gerald Morris had already set dinner on the table. Something about that sight warmed me in a way I hadn't expected.

I grew up an orphan. It wasn't until I married Ethan Morris that I had something resembling a family. After he died, Gerald moved in, saying he couldn't stand the thought of me living here alone.

He was a fitness trainer, the kind of middle-aged man who had never let himself go — no beer belly, no softness, just the quiet discipline of someone who had spent a lifetime taking care of his body.

"Joanna, come eat while it's hot."

He waved me over the moment I walked in. I answered and sat down, and we had dinner together. Afterward, I went out to the balcony to collect my laundry.

I counted everything twice. My black lace underwear was gone. I stood there, genuinely puzzled — I'd hung it right there, so how could it just vanish? Maybe the wind had taken it, I told myself. It had been strong the last couple of days. I shook my head. Surely no one had taken it. Either way, it was just a pair of underwear. I let it go.

That night, after my shower, I lay in bed and felt the emptiness settle in. They say a woman hits her prime in her thirties — I was only twenty-seven, but Ethan had been gone for two years, and those two years had been completely, utterly celibate. The scenes from the subway kept replaying in my mind, unbidden, and I found myself pressing my thighs together.

I reached for the little toy I'd bought a while back and switched it on.

I buried my face in the pillow, twisting against the sheets, trying to keep quiet.

Then a voice came from outside the door. "Joanna? Are you alright? I warmed you some milk — you looked a little off tonight. Drink it and get some rest."

"I'm fine," I called back quickly. "Give me a second."

I straightened myself out, slipped on my shoes, and opened the door.

He was standing there in a white tank top, his arms bare and solid in the hallway light. He handed me the glass and said he wanted to watch me drink it. I took it and drained it in one go.

He took the empty glass from my hands and said softly, "Good night."

"Good night," I echoed, and closed the door.

The moment I lay down, sleep took me almost immediately.

I woke up the next morning feeling strangely worn out, as though the dream I'd had was too vivid, too real. I gave myself a light slap on the cheek and muttered a silent curse. I'd dreamed about him, his father. Ethan's father. What was wrong with me.

I checked the time, got ready in a hurry, and headed out. As I reached the front door, I saw him coming back from his morning workout. I said a quick hello and left for work. When I glanced back from the gate, I caught the way he was looking at me — intense, unreadable, burning in a way I couldn't quite name.