Rooftop Please: Her Best Friend's Father

I shouldn’t be telling anyone this, but I have to get it out somewhere. I’m Yara, twenty-two, and for three years I’ve been quietly losing my mind over my best friend Petra’s father. Bruno. Forty-eight, silver threading the dark hair at his temples, those thick forearms from whatever he still does in the gym even after long days running his firm. He has this low voice that always made my stomach drop when he’d say goodnight at their place, like he was tasting the words. Petra never knew. God, she’d kill me. I kept it locked down—smiling polite, accepting the occasional ride home, never letting my eyes linger too long on the way his shirt stretched when he reached for something on a high shelf.

Then came the house-sitting gig.

Petra and her mom were off at some spa retreat upstate. Bruno was supposed to be in Chicago until Monday on a deal that had been dragging for weeks. The downtown penthouse needed watering for the plants, lights on so it didn’t look empty, the usual. I said yes too fast. I always did where that apartment was concerned. Floor-to-ceiling glass, the whole city glittering below like it belonged to him. And the rooftop terrace—private, with the low lounge chairs and the outdoor kitchen and that endless view. I’d fantasized about it more times than I can count, usually with my hand between my legs and his name bitten into my pillow.

It was one of those filthy-hot summer nights where the air itself feels like a hand on your skin. I’d stripped down to a thin white tank and tiny black shorts the second I locked the door behind me, barefoot on the cool marble. The AC hummed but I still felt sticky, restless. I poured myself a glass of his good red from the rack—he’d said to make myself at home—and wandered out onto the terrace around ten. The city pulsed below: traffic like distant blood, neon smeared across the river. I sat on the edge of a lounger, knees drawn up, glass dangling from my fingers, and let myself think about him. The way he’d clapped me on the shoulder once last Christmas and left his hand there a second too long. How his eyes had flicked to my mouth when I laughed at one of his dry jokes. Harmless. Friendly. Except nothing about the heat pooling low in my belly felt harmless.

I didn’t hear the elevator. Just the soft slide of the terrace door and then his voice, rough with surprise.

“Yara?”

I nearly dropped the wine. He stood there in the doorway, suit jacket hooked over one finger, tie already loosened, white shirt open at the throat. Travel-rumpled. A shadow of stubble. Older, yes, but solid in that way that makes you want to climb. His dark eyes took me in—the tank clinging damp to my braless chest, the shorts riding high on my thighs—and something tightened in his face before he smoothed it.

“Trip got canceled,” he said, stepping out. “Last-minute. I texted Petra but figured you’d already be here. Sorry. I can grab a hotel if—”

“No.” Too quick. I stood, heat flooding my cheeks. “I mean, it’s your place. Stay. Obviously. I was just… having a drink. It’s so hot.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound curling low. “Yeah. Sweltering.” He tossed the jacket over a chair and went to the outdoor bar like he owned every inch of the night, which he did. “Join me for a proper one? Looks like you already started on the good bottle.”