Page 32 of Clonely You

I set my fork down and give him a bright smile. “So…now we’re going to clean up?”

“No.” He gets to his feet and holds his hand out to me. “You’re going to tell me how to make butter and I’m going to work on your behalf.”

Automatically I put my hand in his, because I love his touch. I love the feel of his large, warm hand grasping mine. Then I realize what he’s saying and try to pull free. “Hang on?—”

“No,” he says gently, and doesn’t let me go. “This is about you letting someone else have control, remember?”

“But the kitchen is a disaster!”

“It is. And I will clean it later. Right now, it does not matter. Dirty dishes can remain out and nothing will happen.”

I give him a mutinous look. “This isn’t making me feel better about the situation.”

“I imagine it is not, no. A lot of what we do today will bother you. Except for the orgasms.” He tugs me to my feet and leads me away from the table, ignoring that I’m dragging my feet. “Buttomorrow you will wake up and think about today, and perhaps it will bring you a new perspective on things.”

“Or I’ll just wake up to a bunch of dirty dishes,” I grumble.

“Or that,” he agrees cheerfully. “I will help you clean, though.”

I’m sure he will. I’m also sure he will probably clean the dishes wrong, because I have a certain way of doing things. He’ll clean them out of order, and won’t put them back the way I like, and…boy, I’m really proving his point.

I hate that about myself.

Managing a smile, I try not to think about dishes or anything else. I ignore the fact that we’re leaving the dining room table dirty, and the kitchen dirty, and I haven’t made my bed, and there’s sawdust on the living room floor and on my nightgown. I need to let things go, like he says. “Let me get dressed if you want to head out to the barn.”

“No need. The weather is warm enough, and you look charming.”

I glance down. “I’m in my sleep clothes and bonnet.”

“Charming,” he repeats. “Come, let us go to the barn.”

“I’m not wearing shoes.”

“I will carry you to the barn. No worries.”

It feels strange and wrong to go outside in my sleep clothing, but what about this day doesn’t feel strange and wrong? I must ignore that feeling and get past it. I need to get comfortable with getting uncomfortable. I know Aithar is suggesting all of this to help me and I’m being a baby if I moan and groan about it. I paste a smile on my face and when I get to the front porch, lift my arms up so he can carry me out to the barn.

Aithar lifts me up into his arms easily and begins walking across the lawn. “See, isn’t this fun?”

I hold tightly to his neck as I bounce in his arms from his enthusiastic steps. “I don’t know if that’s the word I’d use, butI appreciate you helping me, all the same. I know you could be doing other things.”

“There is nothing I’d rather do than help you out, Michaela. You know you only have to ask.”

It’s that whole “asking” part that I’m terrible at. But I hug him because he’s such a wonderful, sweet person. “I’m lucky to have you, you know.”

“Hearing that is all the thanks I need.”

We make it to the barn and the sensor-automated doors roll open, letting the overcast day’s sunlight trickle in. The barn is empty, as the bots have taken the cattle out to the field for their scheduled grazing. The milk gauge shows that the tanks are full, which means there’s a lot of butter that needs to be made. I can only hold the milk for so long before the entire tank spoils, and I didn’t get anything done yesterday after I had my meltdown.

I move to the computer that runs most of the functions of the barn—so strange, to think that so much has been automated on a farm—and have it run diagnostics. There are chips on each cow’s ear that send back their stats, and all of them are healthy except one that is flagged as a “potential illness.” The computer prompts “Quarantine?” and I hit the symbol for “yes” and turn to Aithar. “I had to check to make sure everything was fine. There’s one cow I’ll need to check on later. If it’s sick, it’ll infect the others. For now, I’m having the bots herd her back to the barn.”

“What could she be sick with?” he asks, curious.

“Beats me. She’s a cow. I don’t know if it’s something in the air or something she ate, or something she caught from rubbing up against another cow.” I shrug. “The computer will tell us.”

He nods sagely. “So running a farm here is more utilizing the correct equipment than manual labor, yes?”

I shrug again, not trusting his reason for inquiring. “Why do you ask?”

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