In Love With My Son's Best Friend

JUNE’S POV

My heart wasn't just beating; it was trying to break out of my chest. Honestly, it was a miracle Luca couldn't hear it over the bar noise. His hand was right there on the small of my back, warm and steady, and the feeling was a crazy mix of thrilling and absolutely terrifying.

And that was the problem. This guy guiding me through the crowd? He was twenty-two, twenty-three tops. My son Adrian’s age. Let that sink in for a minute. Meanwhile, I’m a forty-year-old woman whose entire life had just been vaporized a few hours ago.

I had no business being here. None. This boy with the intense blue eyes and all those tattoos was basically a walking red flag, and I was following him like I’d never seen the color red before. But the way he looked at me… God, it had been twenty years since a man looked at me like that. Like I was something to see. After the night I’d had, I was all out of reasons to play it safe.

You see, just a few hours ago, I was a completely different person. I was a wife.

FLASHBACK TO 2HOURS EARLIER..

My phone buzzed on the counter. Sarah’s name popped up, of course. That woman has a sixth sense for when I’m about to lose it.

“Are you ready, or are you still pacing the room like a lunatic?” she asked the second I picked up.

I let out a laugh that sounded as fake as it felt. “I’m not pacing. Just… finishing up.” I slid into the red silk dress I’d bought specially for our twentieth anniversary, smoothing it down over my hips. You know, the kind of thing you hope makes you feel powerful.

“You’re terrified,” she said, and I could literally hear the smirk in her voice. “June, it’s Franklin. You’ve been married to the man forever. Why are you acting like it’s a first date with some random guy from an app?”

“Because I need it to mean something, Sarah,” I confessed, struggling with the zipper. “He’s been buried in work. I don’t even know if he’ll care.”

“He’ll care,” she said, like it was the simplest truth in the world. “You’re going to walk in there and he’s gonna see what he’s been missing. He’ll melt.”

Her faith was enough to get me to tuck his gift, that stupidly expensive leather watch he’d pointed out, into my purse. Maybe, just maybe, tonight would fix us.

The elevator ride to his office on the thirtieth floor felt like it took a year. My heels clicked a nervous little tap-dance on the hallway tile. And then I heard it. A low, hungry moan. My stomach just dropped right out of me.

I pushed the door open. it was already slightly ajar, and I swear, the whole world just froze.

There he was. Franklin. My husband of twenty years. Bent over his fancy desk with his face buried between his secretary Karen’s thighs. She was laid out on the polished wood like some kind of prize, lipstick smeared, making these little sounds. And his hands were gripping her waist like she was the most precious thing he’d ever touched.

“You taste so sweet, baby. Better than my wife,” he muttered, and his voice was so rough with a want I hadn't heard in years. “God, I could eat you all night.”

I felt my chest actually cave in. Like, physically cave in.

Then Karen had the nerve to whimper, “Do I really feel better than her, Frankie?”

Frankie? Seriously?

He actually had the nerve to laugh. “So much better, Karen. June’s body is worn from the kids. Yours is tight, smooth. Exactly what I need.”

And there it was. The truth, landing like a punch to the gut. It wasn't the late nights. It wasn't the stress. It was me. I was "worn." A worn-out mom.

He finally saw me then. His head snapped up, his face went white. “June! What are you doing here?”

“How long?” My voice didn't even sound like mine. It was hollow.

“This isn’t what it looks like! Please, I can explain—”

But I was already running. My heels slapped against the tile, and with every step, I felt something else inside me crack. I drove away in a blur of tears and honking horns, that anniversary gift in my purse feeling like the cruelest joke the universe had ever played.

PRESENT

So that’s how I ended up here, parked kinda crooked outside a dive bar called “The Escape.” I mean, you can’t make this stuff up, right? The drive was a complete blank. I just drove until the sharp, stabbing pain turned into this heavy, numb ache.

Inside, the place smelled like stale beer, cheap whiskey, and a hint of bleach they probably used to wipe up the despair. The floor vibrated with some old rock song, and the whole room was just a jumble of loud voices and clattering pool balls. It was the perfect place to get swallowed up. To just disappear so I didn't have to listen to my own thoughts screaming at me.

I found a stool at the end of the bar, the vinyl seat cracked and split like my own composure. I stuck out like a sore thumb in my red silk dress. It felt like a costume for a party that had been cancelled. I ordered a whiskey, neat, and told the bartender to just keep them coming.

The first one was pure fire, burning away the image of Franklin’s shocked face. The second one started to blur the edges of the pain. By the third, I was feeling floaty, like I was watching some other woman’s life fall apart.

That’s when I noticed him.

He was over by the little stage, leaning against a speaker with a guitar on his back. And he was staring right at me. When our eyes met, he didn't look away. His eyes were this crazy deep blue, the kind that’s almost unsettling. Like looking down into the deep end of the ocean and not knowing what’s down there. A shiver went right through me, and it had nothing to do with the whiskey.

I looked away fast, my eyes dropping to the tattoos snaking down his arm. My hand, just resting on the sticky bar, actually itched. Isn't that crazy? I had this ridiculous, unbidden thought: I wonder what that ink feels like.

I took a gulp of my fourth drink, feeling bold and stupid. I glanced back, and he was still watching me, a slow, easy smile on his lips. I quickly looked back at my glass, my cheeks on fire.

I didn't see him walk over. I just felt the air change beside me.

“Mind if I join you?”

His voice was low and it cut right through my boozy haze. I turned, and up close, he was just… dangerously handsome. Sharp jaw, messy dark hair, and a smile that was way too confident.

He couldn't have been older than my son. The thought was like a bucket of ice water. My stomach twisted into a knot. This was wrong.

But then his eyes did this slow sweep over me, and the horror got chased away by this electric thrill. He wasn't looking at me like someone's mom. He was looking at me like I was a woman.

“You’re gorgeous,” he said, leaning back like he owned the place.

I almost snorted. Me? Gorgeous? I was a forty-year-old woman who’d just finished crying in her car. “You must need glasses,” I muttered into my drink.

His grin got even wider. “Or maybe you just need better mirrors.”

It took me a second to get it. He was flirting. With me. The "worn-out" wife. I should've shut it down right there. But the way he looked at me? God help me, I felt… wanted. It was a feeling I was so starved for, I was dizzy with it.

“What’s your name?” he asked, leaning in.

“Uh… Lilian,” I blurted out. The lie just popped out. June was the betrayed wife. Lilian… Lilian could be anyone. Lilian could be someone who does reckless things with handsome young strangers.

“Lilian,” he repeated, slow, like he was tasting the name. “I’m Luca.” Even his name sounded like trouble.

An hour just vanished. We talked, and I laughed. I mean, really laughed, the kind where you bend over and clutch your stomach. I hadn’t laughed like that in twenty years of marriage. With Luca, I wasn't thinking about Franklin or Karen or my broken life. I was just… there.

When I went to lift my glass again, his hand caught my wrist. His grip was warm and solid. “I think you’ve had enough,” he said, and his grin made my stomach do a wild spiral.

That grin. It was playful, but there was a heavy intention underneath it. The air between us had been buzzing all night. And sitting there, close enough to smell the soap and cigarette smoke on him, I couldn't stop staring at his mouth. I couldn't help but wonder where all those tattoos led.

“Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

I nodded, probably a little too fast, and let him help me off the stool. My legs were wobbly from the drinks or from him, I couldn't tell. His hand pressed against my lower back, guiding me, and a shiver raced down my spine that I didn't even try to stop.

Outside, the cool air hit me like a slap. I stumbled on the cracked pavement, and in a second, his arms were around me, pulling me close. The solid warmth of his body was a shock to my system. My brain went to a reckless, wild place.

He was so much taller than I thought. Even in my heels, I had to look up at him.

Damn, he’s tall, I thought, and I bit my lip without even thinking.

“Did you drive here? Where’s your car?” he asked, his hand still a brand on my back.

I looked over at my sensible sedan sitting under a flickering light. It looked like everything I was running from, duty, responsibility, a life that was all a lie. I wasn't ready. Not to leave him. Not to go back to that empty, silent house.

Tonight felt like a lifeline. And I was terrified to let it go.

I looked up at this impossibly young man who’d made me feel alive for one precious hour, and I made a choice.

"I'm not ready to go home," I whispered.