Page 26 of Dirty Husband
It's wrong to my very core.
My entire life, I've worked. I've studied. I've tried to achieve.
Am I supposed to spend the next year lying on his fancy leather couch, sipping oolong and eating cookies?
I'm sure it will be nice for a few days. A few weeks even. Then what?
I can't even imagine how I'd fill my days. The idea of free time is too foreign.
Time to relax, to focus on myself without Dad's treatment hanging over my head—
What would that feel like?
I don't know. I really don't.
The sound of footsteps calls my attention.
Shepard moves into the main room holding an antique silver tray. It's shiny, freshly polished. Real silver probably.
He sets it on the table. Removes a clean white teapot and two matching mugs. Then a small plate of scones and raspberry jam.
"Key tells me the flavor profiles are complementary." He motions to the thick red jam. "Something about the complexity of this blend of oolong and the mix of tart and sweet." Vulnerability bleeds into his voice.
"Key?"
"My chef. You could call her the household manager."
"Your staff is called Lock and Key?"
"They find it amusing." He pushes the plate toward me.
It matters to him, whether or not I accept his offer of tea and pastry. It matters to him, whether or not I like it. "Thank you." My stomach growls as I study the scones. They're dotted with little pieces of fruit. More berries.
He pulls out my chair.
I rest against the leather couch. I should sit. Accept his gift. It looks delicious and I'm starving. Honestly, all that talk of Ikea inspired a strong craving for lingonberry jam.
I'm sure the idea would horrify Shep as much as it horrifies Lock. I suppose it would horrify plenty of normal people.
Ikea doesn't exactly have a reputation for delicious food. More amazingly cheap.
Shep normal. It's a funny thought.
How long has it been since the term fit him?
"Jasmine?" He lifts the pot and pours amber liquid into one cup. Then another.
Damn, it smells good. Still, my legs stay pressed against the leather couch. I can't give in yet. I just can't.
Then his tone shifts to that low, deep one. "Sit," he commands.
My legs move on their own. Before I know it, I'm in the chair, my hands folded in my lap, my thighs shaking.Say something like that again. Right now. Please. Only make it much, much dirtier.
My hands steady as I pick up my mug. This is tea and scones. Nothing more. It doesn't mean I appreciate him trying to buy me.
"Thank you." I take a long sip of the oolong. It's good. Floral and sweet. A tiny bit astringent.
"You're welcome." His eyes fix on mine. "It's not perfect."
