Help! I’m in Love with My Best Friend’s Dad!

Help! I’m in love with my best friend’s dad.

Javed realized this inconvenient truth while standing in David’s kitchen and watching Martin walk in after his morning swim, water dripping down his bare chest.

It wasn’t just a passing realization; it was a physical blow that knocked the air straight out of his lungs. Javed stood frozen by the marble-topped kitchen island, a half-filled mug of coffee forgotten in his hand. Through the floor-to-ceiling glass doors that opened to the private dock, the morning sun caught the ripples of the lake, painting the kitchen in shimmering, golden light.

But Javed wasn’t looking at the lake. He was staring at Martin Cole.

Martin was forty-five years old, and he was, without a doubt, the most devastating man Javed had ever laid eyes on. He was built like a statue carved from granite—broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, with a chest covered in a light dusting of dark hair that trailed down into a dangerously low-slung pair of grey swim trunks. Droplets of lake water clung to his skin, tracing the sharp lines of his abdominal muscles before soaking into the fabric. He was drying his short, silver-streaked dark hair with a plush white towel, completely unaware—or perhaps entirely indifferent—to the absolute havoc he was wreaking on Javed’s nervous system.

For three years at university, Javed had teased David about his "intimidatingly handsome" father whenever David complained about how strict his family was. It had been a joke. A safe, distant fantasy.

But seeing Martin in the flesh, smelling the fresh scent of the lake and ozone clinging to him, made Javed realize his harmless crush was actually a loaded gun.

"Dad!" David bounced into the kitchen, his energetic, golden-retriever energy instantly breaking the heavy silence. "You’re already up? We just got the last of our bags unpacked."

Martin stopped drying his hair, slinging the towel around his neck. His dark, piercing eyes swept over his son, softening with a rare, genuine warmth. "I like to start my mornings early, David. The lake is quietest at dawn."

Then, those sharp eyes shifted. They landed directly on Javed.

Javed’s heart did a violent flip-flop against his ribs. He forced himself to stand up straight, desperately trying to look like a normal, functioning twenty-four-year-old and not a Victorian maiden about to faint.

"Javed," Martin said. His voice was a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated straight through Javed’s collarbones. "Good to see you again. It’s been a while."

"Mr. Cole—I mean, Martin," Javed corrected himself quickly, his cheeks warming. He held out a hand. "Thank you for having me. Your home is beautiful."

Martin stepped closer, his bare feet silent on the hardwood. He took Javed’s hand. His grip was firm, his palm warm and slightly damp from the swim. A jolt of pure electricity shot up Javed’s arm, and he had to actively restrain himself from shivering. Martin held his hand for a beat longer than necessary, his thumb brushing lightly against Javed’s knuckles before he let go.

"It’s my pleasure," Martin said, his gaze lingering on Javed’s face, taking in the blush creeping up his neck. "But before you boys get too comfortable, let’s establish a few things. I’m glad you’re both here to help with the charity gala, but this is still my home, and there are rules."

David groaned playfully, leaning against the counter. "Here we go. The Cole corporate handbook."

Martin shot his son a warning but fond look. "My home office is strictly off-limits when the door is closed. I expect quiet during my morning conference calls, and absolutely no loud music after ten. This summer is about focus. We have a lot of work to do before the gala, and I expect you both to take your duties seriously before you start your new jobs in the autumn. Understood?"

"Understood, Dad," David said, saluting jokingly.

"Understood," Javed murmured. But as Martin turned his back to grab a bottle of water from the fridge, Javed’s eyes locked onto the broad expanse of his back, tracing the powerful muscles of his shoulders.

Suddenly, Martin whipped around. He caught Javed staring red-handed.

A slow, knowing smirk played at the corner of Martin’s mouth. Javed immediately looked down at his coffee, his face burning hot enough to fry an egg.

By the time dinner rolled around, Javed thought he had his act together. He had showered, changed into a clean linen shirt, and spent an hour telling himself that Martin Cole was off-limits.

They sat in the formal dining room, the table laid out with a roast dinner that tasted like heaven. Outside, the lake had faded into a deep, velvet blue.

"So," Martin said, cutting his steak with precise, elegant movements. "We need to begin organizing the digital outreach for the charity auction tomorrow. David, you’ll handle the social media promotions. Javed, I want you working directly with me on the VIP guest list. Your university transcripts show an exceptional eye for detail."

Javed smiled, feeling a thrill of pride. "I’d love to, Martin. I’m looking forward to it."

"He’s also looking forward to the air conditioning," David teased, pouring himself another glass of red wine. "Don't let him fool you, Dad. Javed’s just happy to be out of our cramped city apartment. Plus, he’s a sucker for luxury. He’s practically drooling over your dining room setup."

"I am not," Javed protested, kicking David under the table.

"Oh, please," David laughed, entirely oblivious to the undercurrents swirling in the room. "You love the finer things in life. Besides, Dad, you should know—Javed has always had a weakness for older, sophisticated men. Last semester he went on a date with a guy who was thirty-two just because the guy knew how to order off a French wine list."

Javed froze. The sip of wine he had just taken suddenly felt like liquid lead in his throat. He swallowed hard, coughing slightly. "David, shut up. That is completely irrelevant."

Across the table, Martin’s movements stopped. He slowly set his fork down, leaning back in his leather chair. His dark eyes locked onto Javed, narrowing slightly. The temperature in the room felt like it spiked ten degrees.

"Is that so?" Martin asked, his voice dropping an octave, rich and dangerously smooth.

"David is exaggerating," Javed stammered, his face flushing furiously. "It was one date, and the man was incredibly boring."

"A weakness for older, sophisticated men," Martin repeated, the words rolling off his tongue like a secret. His gaze drifted down to Javed’s parted lips before snapping back to his eyes. "Fascinating. I would have thought someone your age would prefer... less complicated company."

"I... I like people who know what they want," Javed whispered, unable to look away from the intense heat in Martin’s stare.

Martin’s jaw clenched slightly, a sudden, heavy tension settling over the table. "An admirable trait," he murmured.

David, completely missing the loaded silence, grabbed the last roll from the basket. "Well, whoever he dates next, they have to be able to handle Javed’s mouth. He talks back. A lot."

Martin’s eyes flared with something dark and possessive. "I’m sure he does," he said softly.

At two in the morning, Javed was tossing and turning. His room on the second floor was gorgeous, but the sheets felt too hot against his skin. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the silver in Martin’s hair, the cut of his jaw, and the way those dark eyes had stripped him bare at the dinner table.

Giving up on sleep, Javed slipped out of bed. He was wearing nothing but a pair of loose, grey cotton sleep shorts. He padded quietly down the grand spiral staircase, his bare feet making no sound on the cool stone steps.

The kitchen was bathed in the cool, blue-grey light of the moon. Javed reached into the cabinet, pulled out a glass, and poured himself some ice water. He leaned his hips against the marble island, closing his eyes as he drank, enjoying the quiet.

"Can't sleep?"

The voice cut through the darkness like a blade.

Javed jumped, nearly dropping his glass. He whipped around, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Standing near the French doors was Martin. He wasn't wearing his daytime suit. Instead, he wore a dark silk robe, tied loosely at the waist, exposing a V of his bare, muscular chest. He looked rugged, untamed, and impossibly handsome in the moonlight.

"Martin," Javed breathed, his voice barely a whisper. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. I just wanted some water."

"You didn't wake me," Martin said. He didn't stay by the doors. He walked toward Javed, his steps slow, deliberate, and entirely predatory.

Javed’s breath caught. He wanted to run, but his feet felt glued to the floor. As Martin closed the distance, the scent of sandalwood, expensive soap, and pure male heat filled the space between them.

Martin stopped mere inches away. He was taller than Javed, broader, his physical presence completely overwhelming.

"You've been watching me all day, Javed," Martin said quietly. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of absolute fact.

Javed swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to Martin’s collarbone before forcing himself to look into those intense dark eyes. "I haven't. I was just... adjusting to the new place."

Martin tilted his head, a dark, knowing smile playing on his lips. He stepped even closer, crowding Javed until the small of Javed's back hit the edge of the marble counter. Martin lifted his hands, placing them firmly on the counter on either side of Javed's hips, trapping him completely.

Javed’s heart was beating so loud he was certain Martin could hear it.

"Don't lie to me," Martin murmured, leaning down. His gaze dropped to Javed's mouth, then back up. "You stared at the pool. You stared at dinner. You’re staring right now."

Javed’s hands gripped the edge of the counter, his knuckles turning white. "Martin..."

Martin lowered his mouth close to Javed’s ear.

“Keep looking at me like that,” he whispered, “and I might forget you’re my son’s best friend.”