Page 173 of Mangled Memory
“Let it be known you’re here, but I don’t see her needing or wanting that. You’re here for her protection not entertainment.”
“Yes, Mr. Barone.”
Agency in my own life starts with not allowing two men to choose my meals, my “protection,” my anything. I walk straight to the door only to face a man at least a foot taller than me with more than a hundred pounds on me blocking my path. We end up in the clumsy dance where we each shift but end up going the same direction.
I apologize. The wall of man does not.
Christian clears his throat. “Ayla, this is Fitz. Fitzgerald, Mrs. Barone.”
No one can miss my flinch.Mrs. Barone.
I extend a hand and shake. “Fitz. Sorry for the awkward”—I hitch a thumb over my shoulder—“whatever that was.”
Fitz gives Christian a look, again saying nothing, and leaves me alone with a brooding man in his home office.
All my brave woman mojo leaches from me. “I’m going to lie down.”
“Okay, Princess.”
“Why do you call me that?”
“It reminds everyone, including myself, of the way I expect you to be treated. I hope it gives you an inkling of how precious you are.”
How the helldo I argue that?
“Ayla, I have to go out tonight for a work meeting. I’d love it if you wanted to join me.”
That’s a hell no. Not today. Not when I can’t remember shit. Instead of saying that, I shake my head in a tiny motion. I know better than to do it more aggressively.
“I thought you might say that. I’ve asked Corinne to cook your favorites. Do you want to invite Halley over for dinner? I wouldn’t normally mind you being alone, but it’s your first night after…” His words drift, and my shoulders sag in relief.“I won’t be too long if you’d prefer I stay, but if you’d like Halley to?—”
“I’d love that.” I miss my best friend. I need her. Halley Tomlinson is incredible.
“A new phone, programmed just like your old one, is on your nightstand. Let Halley know that Corinne will have dinner ready at seven, but she’s welcome anytime.”
“Thank you.”
I turn and take a step or two before returning my gaze to him, pushing some hair behind one ear. “Christian? I, uh… don’t know where my bedroom is.”
He rounds the desk and ushers me out of the room, dropping his hand to my lower back again. This time the intimacy of the gesture forces a shiver up my spine. I can’t discern whether desire is mixed in with the frisson of fear. But the fear is undeniable.
Through the great room, past the curving staircase, and down the hall, there’s a set of double doors. When he pushes one open and steps inside, my mouth drops.
My apartment in college was smaller than this room. It must be a story and a half. Skylights are open in the high ceiling. A king-sized bed sits center in the lushest cream carpet I’ve ever felt beneath my feet. Creams, pale blues, and golds are woven in the comforter. Deep pillows beckon me, while the sitting area of fluffy chairs and a deep settee, piled high with books, draws my eye.
Christian walks around me and taps a button on the tablet at the bedside. The whirl of something mechanical hums as fabric covers shutter the skylights and shades drop across the windows.The same happens across the wall of doors I now see open onto the terrace at the hot tub and pool. Lamps on nightstands come on as the man walks toward me.
He extends the tablet. “Lights, blinds, sound, TV”—at the last, he looks aside—“are all here at the touch of your fingers.”
I tap the button labeled “Entertainment” only to see multiple options. I can connect to playlists or to services like Apple Music or Spotify. There’s a way to have ocean waves or rain sound through invisible speakers surrounding me. I tap the button labeled TV followed by my name and the mirror across from the bed becomes sheer glass and beyond it are every option I didn’t know I could need.
I look up to the man next to me and wonder if his smile mirrors my own.
“Of all the things I thought would make you happy, housewives of wherever wasn’t it.”
I turn to look and, sure enough, it’s some dramatic catfight.
“What did you think would make me happy?”
