ONE
"Kaaaaat,"
I stirred in my bed. Five more minutes.
"Oh Kiiiiiiit-Kaaaat!"
I open my eyes just a little, so I'm half squinting, half glaring at whom ever it was who dared to disturb my slumber on this glorious Boston morning.
Black hair is the first thing that comes into focus through the morning fog in my eyes. Next the barely-there grey streaks running through it make themselves known to me. Then a soft face with blue eyes and an impish grin.
Ugh. My father.
"Morning, sleepyhead," he said in an almost sing-song voice.
"Morning," I grumblemumble in response. "I'm up, now vamoose."
I sit up and rub my eyes. A glance at the Minnie Mouse clock on my bedside table informs me it's 7:20am…On a Saturday. I turn to glare at my obviously time-confused father, but become distracted by his outfit. "Dad,…Harris on a Saturday? Seriously?" I ask, referring to his Harris tweed jacket. "Wait…Why are you dressed like you're going to class?"
He grinned his impish grin at me even wider. I was expecting him to be in his usual weekend garb, jeans and a polo.
"Well, here's a hint," he grinned. "It's not because I have a class today."
I stare at him, one eyebrow raised in suspicion. He returns my stare with more grinning. For a second I think about how often I forget how handsome my father is. I wish the rest of Boston (and, recently, the world) would forget. But no, Boston Magazine is forever asking for an interview with "the Sexiest Professor at Harvard."
I snap back to the present and put my mind to trying to figure out what the hell is with his outfit.
"Seriously. What's the occasion, Professor Dad?"
He grins at me, looking more guilty by the second. The impish grin is back.
"Hold on," I say, everything suddenly making sense. "I know that grin…NO. No, dad. Just no. I don't CARE what fantastic old fart is lecturing today. It's 7am, on a Saturday. NO."
His grin didn't falter. "C'mon, Kat," he said through his grin. "You'll enjoy this one, I promise!"
"…NO!" I say, as firmly as I can manage. "I'm SEVENTEEN. I don't LIKE lectures."
That did it. His grin slipped down into a childish pout. "You like MY lectures…" he sniffed.
"Well, yeah, but," I stammer. "But you're my DAD. You lecture about INTERESTING things."
"This girl is interesting, too," he claims.
I take the bait. "Girl…?"
"Yeah," he says, feigning extreme sadness and putting on his best hurt puppy look, staring at my floor. "But if you don't wanna go, I understand." He shoots a sideways and heartbreakingly sad glance at me.
Ughhhhhhhh, why does he get away with everything when he does that look? It was the same look that got me to the charity auction for Harvard's law department. I remember the sight of countless women in too-low-cut dresses flirting with my dad and hold back a shudder.
"Fiiiiiiiiiine," I sigh, giving in to his world-famous charisma and charm. "I'll go….So long as you leave the hurt puppy look here."
"Yes!" he says, obviously pleased with his accomplishment of stealing my Saturday.
I hop out of bed and start brushing my long caramel brown hair.
"So, tell me," I say, looking at my dad in the mirror. "Who's lecture are we attending today, Professor Langdon?"
