He's not my dad

part 22

Greg reached out late in the afternoon, asking if I could help him plan a small going-away party for Chuck and the band before they left on tour. I agreed before I really thought it through. It felt professional, harmless even. Helping your boss plan a party for his son—normal, right?
Except nothing about this situation felt normal.
I sat in Greg’s office with my laptop open, a neat list already forming on the screen: venue ideas, catering options, guest lists. Greg paced the room with his phone pressed to his ear, his voice calm and authoritative as he spoke to someone about logistics I only half listened to. He moved with an easy confidence, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened slightly. It was distracting in a way I didn’t appreciate.
I forced my eyes back to the screen.
When the call finally ended, the room felt suddenly too quiet. Greg exhaled and turned toward me, walking over and sitting down in the chair beside mine instead of returning to his desk. I stiffened without meaning to.
The distance between us vanished.
Our knees brushed—accidentally, I was sure—but neither of us moved away. I could smell his cologne, subtle and expensive, and suddenly I was acutely aware of my posture, my breathing, the way my foot bounced nervously against the floor.
“So,” he said, leaning slightly closer to glance at my screen, “what do you have so far?”
His shoulder almost touched mine. Almost.
I swallowed. “I was thinking something casual. A bar venue rather than anything formal. It suits the band… and Chuck.”
He smiled faintly at the sound of his son’s name. “That sounds right.”
His eyes lingered—not on the laptop, but on me. I felt it immediately. The weight of his gaze. Not inappropriate enough to call out, but not entirely professional either. It made my skin prickle.
At one point, weeks ago, I would have welcomed that look. I’d had a crush on him—God, I could admit that now. He was charming, powerful, quietly magnetic. Back then, if he’d leaned in like this, if his attention had turned personal, I wouldn’t have stopped it.
But now?
Now I was dating his son.
The thought twisted in my stomach.
Greg cleared his throat, straightening slightly, but his knee still brushed mine. “Chuck seems… happy,” he said carefully. “With you.”
I nodded, unsure how to answer. “He is.”
“And you?” he asked, his voice softer than usual. “Are you happy?”
The question felt loaded. Too personal. Too intimate for an office with glass walls and corporate art.
“Yes,” I replied quickly. “I am.”
He studied me for a moment longer than necessary, then finally leaned back, creating space between us. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
“Good,” he said, nodding once. “That’s all I want.”
Was it?
He stood and moved back toward his desk, professionalism snapping back into place like armor. “Let’s finalize the details by tomorrow. I trust your judgment.”
“Of course,” I said, closing my laptop.
As I stood to leave, I caught his reflection in the glass—his expression unreadable, thoughtful, restrained. And I knew, with absolute certainty, that whatever tension lingered between us wasn’t something either of us planned… or wanted… but it was there all the same.
And it made everything infinitely more complicated.

....

Going venue-hunting with Greg was a terrible idea.

Not professionally—he was focused, efficient, decisive—but personally? It was torture. I could feel him everywhere. His presence hovered just behind me as we walked through the bar, close enough that if I leaned back even slightly, I’d bump into him. I was hyper aware of every step, every breath, every shift of weight.

“This place has potential,” he said, voice low, close to my ear as he scanned the room.
Too close.

I nodded, pretending to examine the bar taps while mentally reminding myself that he was my boyfriend’s father, my boss’s boss, and absolutely off-limits. Still, my skin hummed like it had a memory of him, and I hated myself a little for it.

The owner—a stocky man with a beard and an easy smile—walked us through drink packages and stage space. “So,” he said casually, gesturing between us, “you and your dad planning a party for your boy?”

Time froze.

I felt it instantly—Greg stiffened beside me. Like a switch had flipped. He stepped back so abruptly he nearly knocked over a barstool, color creeping up his neck.

Dad.

The word landed hard. Too close to the truth in all the wrong ways.

“Oh,” Greg said quickly, clearing his throat. “I’m—uh—no. I’m not—”

I could’ve let it hang. I could’ve pretended not to notice. But the tension was unbearable, thick and awkward and buzzing.

So I smiled sweetly and said, “Oh, he’s not my dad.”

Both men looked at me.

“He’s my daddy,” I added, with a deliberate wink.

The bartender blinked—then burst out laughing. “Alright, alright, got it. My mistake.”

Greg stared at me for a beat, stunned… then shook his head, rubbing a hand over his face before finally laughing too. Real laughter. The kind that broke the moment clean in half.

“Jesus, Taylor,” he said, still chuckling. “You’re dangerous.”

I grinned, utterly unrepentant. “Someone had to save you.”

The tension drained out of the room, replaced with something lighter—manageable. Greg kept a respectful distance after that, clearly reestablishing boundaries, and I was grateful for it.

We walked the space one last time—the small stage, the warm lighting, the intimate layout. It felt right. Lived-in. Perfect for a band about to hit the road.

“This is the place,” I declared, turning to him.

Greg nodded, his expression calm again, professional. “I agree.”

As we headed for the door, he glanced at me once more. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “For… handling that.”

I smiled. “Anytime, if it happens again I'll have an equally creative reply"
Greg shakes his head disapprovingly but finally agrees.

But as we stepped back out onto the street, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something fundamental had shifted—not just for Greg, but for me too.
And whether we liked it or not, this situation was only getting more complicated.

.......

Kate grabbed my arm the second we stepped off the office floor, steering me toward the quiet corner by the elevators like she was about to deliver a breaking-news report.

“Okay,” she said, crossing her arms, “you need to talk. Now.”

I blinked. “Hi to you too.”

She stared at me, eyes narrowed. “I’ve been watching you all day. Greg’s been weird. Chuck’s been popping in like he owns the place—which, I guess, he kind of does—and you’ve been acting like someone defusing a bomb.”

I sighed. “It’s not what you think.”

“That’s what people say right before confessing to something exactly like what I think,” she replied.

I leaned against the wall and lowered my voice. “It’s just the party. Greg asked me to help plan Chuck’s going-away thing. That’s it.”

Kate’s shoulders visibly dropped in relief. “Oh thank God.”

I frowned. “That bad, huh?”

She let out a dramatic breath. “Taylor, I genuinely thought you were… I don’t know… doing both father and son.”

I choked on a laugh. “God, Kate. This isn’t an episode of Jerry Springer.”

“Yet,” she said pointedly.

I rolled my eyes, smiling despite myself. “Look, yes—things are awkward. Greg’s… intense. And Chuck’s his son. And apparently everyone in this building has eyes. But nothing inappropriate is happening. I promise.”

Kate studied my face for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. I believe you.”

“Thank you.”

“But,” she added, holding up a finger, “if you ever do accidentally create a corporate love triangle involving generational wealth, I expect front-row seats.”

I laughed. “Deal.”

We walked back toward our desks, and for the first time all day, the knot in my chest loosened. At least someone knew the truth—and at least, for now, the drama existed mostly in everyone else’s imagination.
Mostly.