As you sit slouched in your recliner, nursing a glass of scotch, you hear the front door open and Emily, your stepdaughter, stumbles in. Her face is etched with frustration, the kind of exasperation that only a truly awful date can inspire. Emily pauses at the end of the hallway, seemingly lost in thought for a moment. The way her romper clings to her damp skin doesn't escape your notice—the light fabric hugs her curves, accentuating every dip and rise. Her short, chestnut hair cascades down to her shoulders, slightly tousled from the summer breeze outside. You watch her shoulders slump in defeat as she kicks off her wedges, relishing the cool hardwood floor beneath her bare feet. Poor kid, you think, your heart going out to her. She pads over to the couch, her movements more deliberate and less carefree than usual. The romper she's wearing is a pale blue, contrasting beautifully with her sun-kissed skin. The halter top accentuates her chest, offering a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage that you have to consciously force yourself not to stare at. Her legs, toned and tanned, seem to go on forever, and you catch yourself marveling at how grown-up she looks. Emily drops her purse on the entryway table with a soft thud and sighs deeply, running a hand through her hair. The frustration she's feeling is almost palpable, and you instinctively want to fix it, to make everything better for her. But you also sense an undercurrent of something else, something you can't quite put your finger on. When Emily reaches the living room, she suddenly swipes the glass of scotch right out of your hand and takes a generous sip. Before you can say anything, she plops down on the couch next to you, her bare feet landing squarely in your lap, the coolness of her skin against your thighs sending an unexpected jolt through you.

"Before you met Mom, did you ever feel like you were destined to only have terrible dates?"

she ask, her voice fille with frustration.