Page 19 of For Her Own Good

She blinks but then it must occur to her what I mean.

“Oh yeah? You found someone to work late?”

“No. One of our admins volunteered to work a split shift with me so she can pick her son up from school and drive him to his gran’s house. His after-school program’s closing and she wasn’t sure how she was going to make this work, but having those two hours free will be perfect with time left over to run an errand or two.”

“Hey, that’s so great. I look forward to your report about how it’s going once you’re in the habit. The start might be a little rough because change, but I bet it’ll be a good fit for you.”

“I think so. A very smart woman suggested it, so I’ve great confidence.”

I offer my glass for a clink and she obliges, the flush growing in her cheeks. She’s so lovely. Always, but especially when she blushes. Must stop thinking about her and her blush. Must stop wondering if her bottom would become the same shade if I took her over my knee. Have got to stop picturing that, otherwise I’m going to get hard in my trousers and I won’t be able to carry on a conversation at all. Which is why I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

“And how are you doing? Work is okay?”

* * *

Starla

“Yes, work is fine.”

Workisfine, in fact. Well, mostly. I have a client who’s becoming agitated that my services haven’t completely changed his life. Which is never what I promise in the first place. Nor does it help that he doesn’t actually do most of what I suggest.

I’m on the verge of dismissing him as a client, because I don’t need the irritation and I have other people who could benefit more from my help. Though Kirk isn’t my real problem. That distinction goes to Tad as per usual.

Fucker will not leave me alone about making a call on my shares of Patrick Enterprises and I continue to try to swim in this ocean I didn’t want to jump in in the first place. It’s taxing and enervating and I hate it, plus though I’d like to think I’m doing a serviceable free style, it more likely seems that I’m doing a third-rate doggy paddle. My father had faith I wouldn’t drown, though, and I can’t stand the idea of disappointing him so I will do my best to at least keep treading water no matter what it costs me.

And while I’m sure Lowry would listen to my fretting and offer any counsel he was able to, I don’t want to talk to him about it.

First, he seems to think me quite competent and I don’t want to disabuse him of that notion. Second, I don’t want to talk about this any more than I absolutely have to and I already spend far more time than I’d like to talking with board members, Patrick Enterprises’ C-suite, my father’s former advisors, my attorneys, all the goddamn people about it.

It’s tedious and a gnawing worry, and I don’t want to think about it when I’m with Lowry. I want to think about nicer things, like how he always looks happy to see me, and how I can fool myself into thinking he might have a bit of a thing for me. Of course he’d never admit it because it would be wildly inappropriate but that doesn’t stop me from wanting him to. Doesn’t prevent me from dreaming up what it might be like if he did in fact want me and acted on it.

What would it be like to sit on Lowry’s lap while I told him about my day? Have him stroke my hair and kiss below my ear? Hear him threaten Tad’s life in that soft burr of his?—even though I know he’d do no such thing because it would cost him his license and besides, Lowry’s not a fundamentally violent man. Would he like that? Would he like it if I called himdaddyas I snuggled against his chest and told him my troubles?

No, I doubt he would. He might say it didn’t bother him with that impenetrable therapist neutrality that sometimes makes me want to swear and throw things, but he wouldn’t mean it. He’d likely find it disturbing since he did know my father, he did know me when I was young, and technically speaking, he is in fact old enough to be my father. You can’t erase that. Even if he were into daddy kink, he probably wouldn’t want that with me because it would hit too close to home.

I’ll have to content myself with what I can have and use these things he says offhandedly as fodder for my masturbatory fantasies—Next time you’ll get your umbrella. Jesus, I almost orgasmed right here at the damn table. It wasn’t a request, it was an order, and given so nonchalantly at that. I need to not think about it anymore before I get uncomfortably wet between my legs.

“Work is fine, but I’m a little tired. Could probably use a vacation or at least a weekend away, but that’s not really a thing I do,” I shrug.

Especially not while I’m trying to hold down my father’s empire alongside tending my own small corner of the world. I shouldn’t have said anything because his head, which had been angled down, studying the menu, snaps up.

“Tired? Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Just tired, like a normal human being. It doesn’t have anything to do with…”

I wave my hand, indicating the severe depression that’s dogged my heels for most of my life.

“Then you should take a vacation. When’s the last time you took a vacation?”

“Does the two extra days I spent in Chicago count?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

I know why not, but I want to hear him argue with me. Coax me, convince me. Childish to want, perhaps, but I’ll take what I can get.

“Two days in the freezing cold going to a few museums does not a vacation make.”

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