The Urban Dictionary defines a "soft launch" as "a photo preview of a talking stage before it becomes an official relationship on social media, i.e., taking photos of their dinner plate and their hands, half their face or their shoes as to allude there's someone special in your life."

all mistakes are my own.

Chapter five

"Sweetheart, I hope to Jesus you're kidding me about this…" Jane's face is all scrunched up, her mouth into a little cute scowl.

"What's the big deal?" I shrug. "He seemed nice enough, and his profile was a breath of fresh air."

"Honey, come on!" Jane throws up her hands. "He's fifty years old for Christ's sake!"

My eyes bulge out of their sockets. I hear laughter from the two men with us.

"No, he's not! He's forty-three…"

"You say that like that somehow makes it better."

"His bio was great, and we kinda clicked over chat. Who cares how old he is?" I shrug, slightly mortified. He's not really fifty, is he? My dad isn't even fifty.

"Jake, Jacob Black. Owner of The Black Pack dog kennel. Stinks like a wet mutt who's laying in front of a hot fireplace. Star quarterback way back when Marc and Jane were in high school. Trust me, I was there when he celebrated the big five-oh with a free keg." It's the most normal sentence I've heard coming out of Ed's mouth.

Holy catfishing fuck.

"I've been catfished?" I exclaim, feeling dirty. Used.

"Why aren't we talking about the fact that the little lady here was planning to go on a date with a man in his forties?" Marcus scratches the stubble on his jaw. His brown eyes scan both Jane and Ed for a reaction.

"Oh, don't patronize me, mister. I'm old enough to make my own decisions."

"And Jake is old enough to be your father," Marc goes on. Jane just nods at Ed, ordering another drink. The barkeep should be thanking me. Everyone seems to be extra thirsty because of my arrival.

"No he's actually too old to be my father, thank you." I cross my arms in front of my chest, my face hot. Who even are these people and why do they care? This town can't be that little for everyone to know each other's business. Right?

"I'm going." I almost trip in my heels when I slide off the stool.

"You're going to sit the fuck down and have a damn sandwich. And I am going to make you one." Ed glares at me, eyes scanning my face for something I don't quite know.

I scoff, rolling my eyes.

"You're not the boss of me!" I whisper-shout, pointing my finger. Every time I move, I feel the effects of the alcohol. He's kinda right but I'd rather fall flat on my face than admit it.

"No," he takes a deep breath, walking out from behind the bar, one hand in the front pocket of his glorious Levi's. The other hand grabs me by the blazer. "But I'm the Cabin Daddy, remember. You'll do as I say, okay? I won't have you go anywhere in this condition except for in that booth over there. You'll sit your ass down and eat the damn food. That clear, kid?" Damn. I think I'm sorta starstruck. Or delusional. Or both. I'm definitely speechless. And tingly. Whether it's because of the booze, or the deep voice, or the absolute poster-boy for virility and masculinity, I don't know.

"Yes, daddy," I blurt out.

It is hot in here, after all.