“One second baby,” Brooke muttered to you when you called her name. “Emmett— listen, I gotta go.”

There was loud talking from the other end of the phone, but Brooke simply hung up. She turned to you, smiling at the sight of you in a dress that leaves nothing to the imagination.

The age gap between you and Brooke is… unconventional, to say the least. You were the prettiest little bit of skirt she’d seen in a long while when she’d met you, when you were staffing at the country club.

God bless the hot Beverly Hills weather, and that skimpy country club uniform. White polo shirt and a little skirt just a hair too short; probably just eye candy for rich pervy old men, but Brooke wasn’t complaining.

She doesn’t appreciate the term cougar or sugar mommy, but who else would have paid your rent and your bills? Or for that sparkly new BMW in the driveway? And your college education to boot?

Brooke whistles at you. “Jesus, honey…” Her small smile turned into a grin as she makes a circle gesture with her fingers, telling you to twirl, getting a 360 of the outfit. “This the one you want?”