Forbidden Vinyl: Her Best Friend's Father Claims Me

Cassidy parked her little hatchback outside Wesley’s sprawling craft-sman house and left the engine idling just long enough for her husband to settle in with his crossword app. “Ten minutes, tops,” she promised, leaning across to peck his cheek. He smelled like laundry detergent and nervous goodwill. “Grab the vinyls and bounce. Wesley said they’re in the den.” Desmond—no, wait, her sweet timid husband—smiled that soft, hopeful smile that always made her feel like she was about to kick a puppy. “Take your time, babe. I’ll be right here.”

She almost felt guilty. Almost.

The front door was unlocked. Cassidy stepped into air-conditioned quiet thick with the scent of old cardboard sleeves and lemon polish. She had barely closed the door when a deep voice rolled out of the den like bass through a good subwoofer.

“Well, damn. Wesley didn’t mention she was sending over a snack.”

Desmond filled the doorway—six-two of forty-eight-year-old trouble in a faded Motörhead tee that stretched across a chest still carved from weekend basketball and zero fucks given. Silver threaded his dark hair; a knowing smirk already lived on his mouth. Cassidy’s best friend’s father looked her up and down like she was a limited-pressing she wanted to spin at 33⅓ until the grooves wore out.