Sugar Daddy

By A.Y. Caluen

An age-gap M/M romance novella about believing in second chances.

Paul Rosenberg never stayed up for New Year's Eve anymore, so it was the morning of January 1, 2000 when he sat down with a cup of coffee and told himself it was time to start living again. He'd lived in this house for three years now, in Los Angeles for just over seven. Taking his history of success in New York and turning it into even bigger success here. Coming home alone every night of every week of every month of every year, because no matter how many attractive men he met in the West, none compared to Mark, the man he'd loved and lost before.

Then he ran into a man who looked so much like Mark that Paul almost couldn't believe it. Jan de Witt, an aspiring jeweler: well-educated, well-mannered, and much too young. Once he got over the shock, Paul couldn't stop thinking about how he could help de Witt launch his career. He really tried not to think about anything else.

Once he agreed to Paul's proposition, Jan put his whole heart and soul, and a lot of work, into launching the business. And he didn't care about the age difference. He hoped the business partnership would lead to more. Maybe to everything.

Adult situations, themes, and language; 31,500 words and a happy ending.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alexandra Caluen
• Release date: Sep 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223796237

A.Y. Caluen

A.Y. Caluen lives in a small purple house with her husband, a bottle of Laphroaig, a lot of books, and nine pairs of ballroom shoes. She is the author of over fifty contemporary romance novels and novellas featuring creative, diverse characters.

Book preview

Chapter 1

January 1, 2000

Paul Rosenberg never stayed up for New Year’s Eve anymore, so it was bright and early in the morning (not truly bright, but definitely early) when he sat down with a cup of coffee and told himself it was time to start living again. Today is the first day of the rest of your life, he said out loud, and lifted his mug to the Pacific Ocean. The sight of it, even through the fog, never got old.

He’d lived in this house for three years now. Lived in Los Angeles for just over seven. Good years, in the main. Making new friends, building a new business, taking his history of success in New York and turning it into even bigger success here. Coming home alone every night of every week of every month of every year, because no matter how many attractive men he met in the West, none compared to the one he’d loved and lost before.

It was totally unreasonable to think that anyone could. But maybe it was also unreasonable to think that he should expect that, or ask for that, or even want that. How many people got one love like that? It was demented to think, if he decided to accept one of those invitations, that love was the ultimate goal. Affection, enjoyment, maybe even passion: those he could see achieving with someone else. And those were worth trying for. He was only fifty-five. That seemed so old once. Now it seemed like nothing more than a speed limit.

He looked across the room at the picture. One of many, so he didn’t know why he always thought of it as THE picture. An acquaintance took it for them when they were in Paris. Paul and Mark, standing together with the Eiffel Tower behind them. Mark was visibly ill. The photo was taken in the middle of the night, early on January first, 1991. A little less than four months before Mark died, in Marseille. He’d insisted on going out to ring in the New Year. He said, This will probably be my last one, so let’s make it count. Let’s live right up to the moment I stop. Let’s love each other and love every minute of our life.

Paul blinked hard, swallowed, and looked away. Mark said that the previous New Year’s Eve too, and they got another whole wonderful year. He couldn’t believe it still hurt this much. I will never stop loving you, he said out loud, as if the image of Mark could somehow hear him. But it’s time to try living again.

Ironically, the first step he took was making an appointment with an estate attorney. That was prompted by the realization that all four of their parents were gone now. A few friends from the old days were gone, too; one to cancer, two to heart disease, and Mark hadn’t been the only one felled by HIV. Some of the others went faster than he did, some held on a lot longer. Some got on the new drug cocktail and it worked for them. It made Mark feel so sick he said it was almost as bad as the actual disease. He’d stopped in 1988, after a year. Maybe it would have bought them more time if he could have tolerated it. But he’d been miserable. Nausea, headaches, neuropathy. Anemia, diarrhea, pancreatitis. The two years after stopping had been so much better. They went all in on the naturopathic route, and while they both knew they wouldn’t beat the virus in the end, at least Mark could put on some weight, feel good, look good. That meant a lot to him.

That was when Mark did his will. He said, I’m not going to last forever, and once I get sick again I’m not going to feel like doing this. So let’s do it now. It was essential. They both had family money. They’d both made money; their business was a winner almost from the start. And they weren’t married, because that wasn’t possible, so every single agreement or arrangement they made had to be treated as a business contract. It made them both mad, every time, but they gritted their teeth and did it. All the extra documents needed for one person to leave property to another person to whom he was not legally related, and to authorize that person to take care of his personal, legal, financial, and medical business. All for lack of one document called a marriage license.

Paul had the same issue in mind now. The only people he could really imagine trusting those things to – not to mention leaving his property to (and there was a lot of it now) – were his former protegée Andie Bernier and her family. Of course, her husband Alain made plenty of money as a game designer. Their daughter Allouette would be fighting off the fortune-hunters, especially if she grew up as gorgeous as her parents.

The estate attorney said the same thing after he saw a picture of the Berniers. That’s a good-looking family. What’s the relationship again?

There is no relationship. Not the way you mean. Andie worked for me for a couple of years in the Eighties. She met Alain during that time. She was my friend, and Mark’s. We’ve stayed in touch all this time. I’d rather leave everything to them than to the niece or nephew. He shrugged. Mark’s will included bequests to those people. There weren’t any such people on Paul’s side. I was an only child, he told the lawyer.

Frank Cavatini sat back, gazing at the man on the other side of the desk. Seven years older than he was, younger than many who decided the time was right for an estate plan. The law is very cruel to people in your position.

Paul knew what he meant. I still would have lost him. Would it have been any easier if the notice in the Times said ‘beloved husband’ instead of ‘longtime companion?’ I don’t know. I wasn’t at home to read it anyway. I didn’t go back till the end of the year.

I wouldn’t have either, Frank thought. I’ll get these documents rolling. I’m assuming you have an accountant here who can provide me with an audit?

Yes I do. Paul passed that business card across the desk. Then he glanced at the framed photo on the credenza behind Frank. How long have you been married? If you don’t mind my asking.

Of course not. We got married when I was twenty-one. That’s almost twenty-seven years now.

Good for you. Cute couple. He looked back at the lawyer, eyes bright with mischief. I suppose people tell you all the time you look like Al Pacino.

Frank laughed. All the time. No relation. He stood up, coming around the desk to offer his hand. I’ll be in touch, Mr. Rosenberg.

Paul shook his hand. Thanks. He accepted Frank’s escort out to reception, where they parted. The receptionist asked if Paul needed to have his parking validated. No, thanks, I came in a cab. I’m an old New Yorker, I don’t drive if I can avoid it.

I don’t blame you! The traffic is awful, isn’t it? Well, have a pleasant afternoon, sir.

Thanks, you too. To the elevators, down to the lobby, and toward the main doors. Paul was thinking about walking over to the big mall to get something to eat. Then he got to the door and stopped so abruptly that someone behind him had to make a jump to the side.

Hey!

Sorry, Paul said automatically. He was staring at the man holding the door open. He felt like he couldn’t breathe. It can’t be. It isn’t. Oh holy Book this is awful.

The man holding the door flinched back a little at the shocked, almost horrified expression he was facing. Are you all right, sir?

Fine. It was mechanical. Thank you. Paul sidled through the door, avoiding another look at the face that was painfully, impossibly like Mark’s. He walked on, not seeing where he was going. It wasn’t until he got to the corner of Constellation and Avenue of the Stars that he remembered where he was. He wasn’t remotely hungry now. He stood there in the sun, trying not to cry, for what felt like a long time. Eventually the light changed. He walked across the street and went straight to the hotel carriageway. He could pick up a cab there, and go home.

***

Jan de Witt stood in the lobby for a moment, shaken by that encounter. He’d seen an expression like that only once before, soon after coming to Los Angeles. When someone asked about his accent and he said ‘South Africa.’ That person apparently assumed that Jan was personally responsible for every wretched thing done there. Twelve years on, the accent still came out when he was stressed. He didn’t want it to come out in this interview, so he did a little deep breathing while he waited for the building security person to call up to the law office. He was stressed enough already about giving up, about money, about whether his permanent-residency application would ever go through. For all he knew that one thing was enough to torpedo this interview, as it had done others. Get on with it, he thought, and managed a smile for the security person once he was cleared