Shaking off the horniness inspired by my quiet morning with Jeff, I spent a few hours working in Katie's study. The room was warm and cosy, decorated in shades of cream, blue and light pine, with a small fireplace, a cushy sofa for lounging, and a deep carpet. The expansive desk was the perfect remote-work set-up. Out the window, I could see sun shining through snow-covered pine trees. I felt lucky.
My week at Katie's cottage in Muskoka was going to be pretty chill. We had a few things planned--a dinner in town one night, hosting a party another--but I was otherwise going to luxuriate in what amounted to a free vacation. I would work in the mornings, and spend the afternoons snowshoeing along the deserted winter back roads, roasting in the sauna, sinking into the hot tub...and ogling my friend's alluring grown-up son, apparently.
Leaning back in the leather chair, I wondered how he saw me. I'm at an age where I am considered an
older woman
. I find the term "MILF" to be icky--I'm childfree by choice, thank you very much--and "cougar" conjures up images of leopard-print--wearing barflys who are constantly on the prowl. I wish there was something a bit more...classy.
True confession: I have never been with a younger man. (Well, my ex-husband was two years younger than me, but I don't think that counts.) My relationships and situationships have all been with men my own age or a little older. Bona fide grown-ups, with jobs in office buildings and their own houses. Men who had their seduction game down pat--who knew how to leverage anticipation, restraint, and desire. My current boyfriend was just that type. Handsome, successful, intelligent, sensual. An amazing cook and an intuitive lover. What more could a woman want?
To be honest, I wanted a man twenty years my junior to fuck me on his mom's kitchen table.
Somehow, I managed to push that fantasy to the back of my mind. I had to--I wouldn't have been able to focus on work otherwise.
After a productive few hours, I went to reward myself with a glass of chardonnay. (That's another cottage rule--there's always a bottle of wine open and ready to be enjoyed, no matter what time it is.) Entering the kitchen with some trepidation, I was relieved to see no sign of Jeff. Relieved, with a twinge of disappointment.
It was just after noon, and I started thinking about lunch. There wasn't much in the fridge, probably because yesterday's snowfall had prevented Katie from doing her grocery shopping. Maybe we'd go stock up later that afternoon. I nibbled on some brie and a handful of grapes, while opening random cupboards and sipping my wine.
The sound of what I assumed was a drunken moose clambering on the back deck startled me. But it was only Jeff, stomping the snow off his boots before coming in through the French doors off the kitchen.
"Hey, Aunt Nika," he said, smiling and bringing in all the energy of a morning spent out in the snow. His cheeks and ears were red with cold. How do guys get away with not wearing a hat in -10 degree weather? It was charming, and I gave him a big smile back.
"Oh god, just call me Nika," I said. I turned back to the cupboards, glad there wasn't any awkwardness between us. Probably best to pretend our intimate morning never happened. "I was going to make something for lunch. Maybe there's pasta somewhere. Can I make you something?"
