He's not my dad

part 11

The bar was exactly what we needed—low lighting, plush seats, music just loud enough to make everything feel a little reckless.
Cocktails appeared quickly. Strong ones.
Bree leaned forward the moment the waitress walked away, eyes wide with anticipation. “Right,” she said. “Start talking. And don’t skip the good parts.”
I rolled my eyes but smiled, already feeling the buzz. “There was a cab. There was a studio apartment. There were tattoos.”
Bree slammed her hand on the table. “YES.”
Kate laughed, sipping her drink. “Please tell me he was as hot as you made him sound .”
“He was hotter,” I admitted. “Annoyingly so.”
Bree fanned herself dramatically. “Details, Taylor. Was he gentle or—”
“Bree,” Kate cut in, though she was smiling. “Maybe let her breathe.”
I shook my head, laughing. “He was… intense. In a good way. And funny. And infuriatingly calm while I panicked about work this morning.”
Bree wiggled her eyebrows. “Did he worship your body?”
“Oh my God.”
“That’s a yes,” she declared.
Kate leaned in, voice softer. “Do you think you’ll see him again?”
I shrugged, swirling my drink. “I don’t know. We didn’t exchange numbers. It felt very… one-night-only.”
Kate opened her mouth to respond, then froze.
“Don’t look, our boss is over there,” she said quietly.
Too late. I was already turning—fully prepared to see Mr. Benjamin awkwardly pretending not to notice us.
Instead, my gaze locked with his.
Not my boss.
My boss’s boss.
Greg sat at the bar, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, drink in hand. When our eyes met, his expression softened—and then he smiled. Not polite. Not distant.
He lifted his glass slightly in greeting.
My stomach flipped.
Bree followed my line of sight and let out a low whistle. “Wow,” she said. “He is hot.”
She waved enthusiastically.
I smacked her hand down. “Do not wave at the CEO.”
“She waved,” Kate muttered, horrified.
“I was being friendly,” Bree said unapologetically. “And observant.”
A few minutes later, a waitress appeared beside our table, balancing a silver ice bucket and a bottle of champagne.
“This is for you,” she said, setting it down. Her eyes flicked toward the bar. “From the gentleman over there.”
I stared at the bottle, pulse thudding.
Bree gasped. “Oh my God. He sent champagne.”
Kate blinked. “Taylor…”
“I can’t,” I said weakly. “I really can’t.”
Bree was already reaching for the bottle. “You absolutely can. And you absolutely will.”
She popped the cork before I could stop her.
“We are not letting a free bottle go to waste,” she said. “That would be rude.”
Kate hesitated. “I don’t know if sitting with him is—”
“Oh, we’re sitting with him,” Bree interrupted, pouring generously. “For networking purposes.”
I shot her a look. “You are embarrassing.”
She grinned. “I am thriving.”
As we stood, champagne glasses in hand, I glanced once more toward Greg. He watched us approach, amusement dancing in his eyes, as if he’d known exactly how this would play out.
And suddenly, I had the distinct feeling that the night was nowhere near as simple—or as safe—as I’d hoped.

Somewhere between the second cocktail and the fourth glass of champagne, the night slipped completely out of our control.
Greg had joined us easily enough, his presence drawing attention the moment we sat down. He was relaxed, charming, clearly enjoying himself more than I’d expected. Bree, however, had moved past enjoying herself and straight into dangerous territory.
She leaned closer to him, laughing too loudly, touching his arm as she spoke. At first, I told myself I was imagining it—but then she tilted her head and said something low enough that only he could hear.
Greg’s smile didn’t falter, but he gently removed her hand from his arm.
“That’s very flattering,” he said kindly, “but no.”
Bree blinked, clearly not used to that word. “Are you sure?” she pressed, unfazed.
“I’m sure,” he replied, still polite, still calm. “But thank you.”
I watched her laugh it off, but something in my stomach twisted.
Had she forgotten about Noel? Or was she choosing not to remember him?
Kate caught my eye, her expression mirroring my concern.
“Let’s dance,” she said quickly, standing. “Before Bree embarrasses us all.”
Greg laughed when we suggested a club—an honest, surprised laugh. “I’m far too old for that.”
“You’re drunk,” Bree announced. “Which means you’re coming.”
To my shock, he agreed.
The club was chaos—lights flashing, music pounding, bodies packed together so tightly it felt like the world had shrunk to sweat and sound. We drew attention immediately. Greg didn’t blend in; he commanded space without trying, and people noticed.
We danced. We laughed. Bree twirled recklessly. Kate sang along to songs she barely knew. Greg surprised us all by moving easily, confidently, like he belonged there just as much as anywhere else.
For a while, everything felt simple.
At one a.m., Greg checked his watch and waved down a staff member. “Time to call it,” he said. “I’ll get you all home.”
His town car waited outside, sleek and silent. The ride back was quieter, the buzz fading into exhaustion.
At our building, he stepped out first, helping each of us onto the pavement. He kissed Bree’s hand—brief, friendly. Kate’s next—the same.
Then he turned to me.
His fingers lingered around mine just a second longer than necessary. His lips brushed my knuckles softly.
“I’m glad I met you,” he said quietly. “I just wish things had been… different.”
I frowned. “Different how?”
He hesitated, eyes searching mine. “Maybe if you hadn’t fallen in Paris,” he said gently. “They might have been.”
Before I could respond, he stepped back, the moment already slipping away.
“Goodnight, Taylor.”
The car door closed. The town car pulled away, disappearing into the street.
I stood there, heart pounding, confusion settling deep in my chest.
I didn’t know what he meant.
But I knew I wouldn’t forget the way he’d said it.