His Best Friend's Daughter's Rooftop Craving

Mark had always prided himself on being the fun one in the group, the guy who could turn a dull Saturday of patching drywall into a stand-up routine with a beer in hand and a string of terrible dad jokes that even Dave groaned at. At forty-two, with a wife back home who mostly tolerated his midlife quips and a mortgage that laughed harder than anyone at his attempts at DIY, he’d jumped at the chance to crash at his best friend’s place for the weekend. Dave’s old colonial needed some serious roof work and a fresh coat of paint on the eaves, and Mark figured a couple nights of free beer and brotherly ribbing beat staring at his own unfinished basement. What he hadn’t figured on was Chloe.

Dave’s daughter had blown in from college that Friday afternoon like a hurricane in cutoff shorts and a tank top that seemed scientifically engineered to short-circuit middle-aged brains. Twenty-two, all long legs and that same mischievous grin she’d weaponized since she was a kid, only now it came with curves that made Mark’s throat go dry every time she sauntered past with a glass of lemonade “for the hardworking men.” She’d always had a crush on him—outrageous, teasing, the kind that used to make him ruffle her hair and call her a brat. But the brat had grown up into pure trouble, and every smirk she tossed his way behind Dave’s back felt like a lit fuse.

“Looking good up there, Uncle Mark,” she’d called earlier that day while he balanced on the ladder, sweat plastering his T-shirt to his chest. Dave was inside wrestling with a clogged gutter, so Chloe had planted herself at the base of the ladder, shading her eyes and biting her lower lip like she was assessing a piece of meat. “Those arms still work after all these years? Or do you need a spotter for the heavy lifting?”

He’d nearly dropped the hammer. “Chloe, for Christ’s sake, I’m covered in paint chips and regretting every life choice that led me to volunteer. Go bother your dad.”

“Dad’s boring. You’re the funny one. Always were.” She’d winked, then spun on her heel, the hem of those shorts riding up just enough to make him grip the rung tighter. Unbearable. That was the word. Every glance, every accidental brush of her hip against his when she “helped” hand up tools, built this humming tension that had him adjusting himself in his jeans like a teenager. Married. Best friend’s daughter. Absolute nuclear no-go. And yet here he was, Saturday night, beer in hand on the newly cleared rooftop deck, staring at the stars and trying not to think about the way her tank top had clung after she’d “accidentally” sprayed herself with the hose earlier.

Dave had crashed hard after dinner—three beers and a belly full of burgers will do that to a guy who gets winded mowing the lawn. Mark had slipped upstairs to the deck for air, the city lights twinkling below, the summer night warm enough that his skin still hummed from the day’s labor. He heard the sliding door before he saw her. Chloe stepped out barefoot in an oversized band tee that barely covered the tops of her thighs, two cold bottles dangling from her fingers.

“Thought you could use a nightcap,” she said, voice low and playful as she padded over. “Dad’s snoring like a chainsaw. We could probably renovate the whole house and he wouldn’t notice.”

Mark took the beer, forcing a chuckle that sounded strained even to him. “Appreciate it. You should get some sleep too. Don’t college kids hibernate or something?”