Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
“I don’t know if I want someone with children,” my dad says. “Been there, done that.”
If my mouth doesn’t express my shock, my eyebrows certainly do, stuck up in my hairline.
“Dad. If you date someone your own age, the likelihood that they are going to have children and grandchildren is very high.”
“That’s one of the reasons I don’t want to date someone my age.” He laughs. “Why are you judging me?”
He is not wrong about that.
“I am sort of judging you. I just think you should date someone closer to your own age, so you have more in common.”
“I can have things in common with someone in their thirties.”
“Yeah. Me. You have me in common with someone in their thirties.”
He ignores me, nodding toward the paper pad.
“Just set the age range I’m interested in as thirty-five to forty-five,” he instructs, and I give him side-eye but follow his directions.
“I’m keeping your actual age.” Loudly, I sigh. “I’m not contributing to misleading anyone, not on my watch. I would never be able to look a woman in the eye if you brought her home, knowing that it was me who set up your profile.”
Dad purses his lips, the glasses on his nose slipping slightly. He pushes them up with the tip of his pudgy forefinger.
He’s irritated with me, bless his heart.
“Why can’t I advertise that I don’t want to date someone with kids? I have them, but I don’t want more.”
Honest to God, I have to take another deep breath to center myself.
“You have grown children because you are fifty-eight.” I cannot stress this enough. “You’ll more than likely encounter a ton of women with grandkids, Dad. For sure.”
He hedges, unsure how he feels about that, and I can tell he’s dying to argue about it.
His mouth opens. Then closes.
Opens again.
I help him out by clarifying, “Are you trying to say you want someone to give you all of their time?”
His nod is small, but I catch it just the same.
“And you think that’s realistic?”
He nods again.
I blow out a puff of air, exhausted with his reasoning, and the breeze from my mouth catches my hair. “How about we phrase it like . . .” I have to think for a second. “In search of someone with the time to commit to companionship.”
Satisfied with that description, I move on. What else would a woman want to know?
“Career?”
When I was growing up, Dad was a lawyer in a tiny local law firm, mostly drafting up estate plans and wills, real estate documents, while also dabbling in divorce and family law. A jack-of-all-trades, working in one of those buildings that looked like a dentist’s office from the outside, all cream walls on the inside and framed art from Goodwill.
No frills.
I wouldn’t say he retired—he just slowly started focusing more and more of his interests outside work, his investments over the years enough for him to live comfortably. Since Mom passed, he hasn’t put the same passion into his work with the law he once did, but he’s happier pursuing other things.
“Retired.”
I jot that down. “Want to say something like retired lawyer or just say retired?”
“Retired. Or you could say wine snob.”
“I’m not putting wine snob down as your job.”
If he wants to be snarky on the dating app, he can figure out a way to edit this shit himself.
“Want to say anything about height? Some women are heightists.”
“What’s a heightist?”
“You know—when a person won’t date someone unless they’re tall, or short, or taller than they are. It’s a personal preference.”
I recall how tall Andy is and how he towers over me. The top of my head barely reaches his shoulder—unless we’re lying down.
I blush, remembering his head between my legs, and try to refocus my attention on my dad and his dating profile.
He grunts rather than give me a straight answer, and I move forward, giving the list we just made a once-over.
“All right. Let’s write the blurby blurb for you.” I stare at the text box on his phone. “Do you want this to be in first person? Or should I list it so it’s more of an At a Glance about Steve?”
“First person at a glance,” he says.
Great.
I don’t even know what that means.
I start typing.
Steve, 58
Widowed wine connoisseur who likes adventure and traveling the wo—
“Are you about to start typing traveling the world?” Dad asks. “Because I’ve only been as far as Canada.”
Right.
I delete that part and start again.
Steve, 58
Widowed wine connoisseur who likes adventure, good wine, loose women, and fast cars.
“Hey!”
“Just teasing.” I laugh. “I wanted to make sure you were paying attention.”
“I am paying attention,” he grumbles, moving closer so he’s officially breathing down my neck. Kevin’s at my feet. If I move an inch, I’m going to step on one of them; I just know it.
“Steve, fifty-eight.” I read out loud as I type. “Widowed father of two. Wine connoisseur who likes adventure and local grub. Not choosy about my food, just the location.”