Page 50 of Spoiling Lillian
Shifting my attention to what needs to be done, I grab my duffel and tuck in a pair of jeans, a Henley, socks, and underwear. My yellow high-visibility vest and boots are in the truck.
Grabbing my duffel, I head toward the door.
Chapter 21
Lillian
* * *
I don’t know where Bryson is going to take me for lunch, but I love that I can rest assured it won’t be a five-star restaurant. I know I can dress however I want and look fine no matter where we go.
Bryson and I haven’t discussed finances. He knows I have a trust fund. He has no idea how huge it is. I’d rather my stupid money not factor into our relationship. I think I’ve made it clear that I come from a stuffy, snobby, elitist family.
As I look at myself in the mirror and adjust the low pigtails behind my ears, I shudder. I never want to go back to that way of life again.
I don’t know as much about Bryson’s financial situation. I know he’s an architect. I know he owns his business. I know he has a nice home. I’ve seen most of it in the background of our video calls.
He has a masculine bedroom with a king-sized bed. The desk in his office is large, with three giant monitors on it. His kitchen has gray countertops, white cabinets, and stainless-steel appliances.
We’ve been on video calls while he’s sat on his back deck a few times. His living room has a large black leather sectional. The television mounted over his fireplace is enormous.
These are all things I know. They are also things I don’t care about. I care about the way Bryson looks at me, how attentive he is, the fact that he never winces when I’m Little. I care about how it feels when his lips are on mine, the shiver that races down my spine when he whispers in my ear, the tingles I get when he watches me move around a room.
I care about the way my eyes roll back into my head when his mouth is on my pussy. I even care about the fact that he has insisted on keeping his pants on so far. I’m over that, but it means a lot that he takes my virginity seriously.
Stopping dead in my tracks, I stare at myself and realize I’m in love with Bryson. Is it too soon? I’ve known him barely more than a month. Granted, we’ve only seen each other in person a handful of times, but tons of people fall in love through video chat every day of the week. It’s not unheard of.
The only thing missing when a relationship develops by phone is whether or not there will be chemistry. Bryson and I have more than proven we have chemistry. It’s off the charts.
I turn, close the bathroom door, and look at myself in the full-length mirror. I’m wearing another short dress. I like how wearing them makes me feel. I’m confident I’ve found my style. This one is white with eyelets along the trim above my breasts, at the hem a few inches below my butt, and along the straps on my shoulders.
I’m wearing white sandals. I’ve tied white ribbons into my pigtails and left the long strands of them hanging down in my hair. The only makeup I have on is mascara and lip gloss.
I feel pretty. I feel confident. I feel excited. There’s no longer any doubt that when I open the door, Bryson will smile and look at me as though I hang the sun and the moon. I’m not nervous about facing him. He will never judge me for my style, no matter what it is.
A knock at my door startles me. He’s earlier than I expected. Things at the job site must have gone well. I exit the bathroom, skip through my apartment, and yank open my door with a huge smile, my heart racing at the thought of seeing Bryson.
Except it’s not Bryson I find standing in the hallway of my building. I blink in shock, the air leaving my lungs as I gape at my mother.
My mother gasps as she takes me in, her gaze roaming up and down my frame from head to toe and back again. She’s wearing pearls—as usual—and she reaches her fingers up to toy with the strand at her throat.
“What are you doing here? How did you get in the building?” I finally manage to ask.
Stiffening her spine, she marches past me into my home uninvited. “The real question is, what are you doing here, young lady? And it was easy to get in. Someone was leaving. I walked right in before the door closed.”
I force myself not to cower. Keeping my shoulders back, I take a deep breath and shut the door. Great. My mother. What a buzzkill. I was in such a good mood. She has a way of instantly sucking the life out of everything and ruining my happy.
Two months ago, I probably didn’t fully realize this. I was barely living. More like existing in a strange bubble that she created and expected everyone around her to adhere to. I don’t think I knew how unhappy I was until I left and discovered that most of humanity does not live such a repressed, stuffy existence.
I stay by the door. I’m not going to invite her to sit or offer her a drink. I don’t want her here. I don’t even say a word. I simply clasp my hands in front of me to keep from fidgeting and wait for her to speak. I’m sure she will. She undoubtedly has a lot to say. Too bad I don’t give a fuck what’s on her mind.
She wanders around my great room, her gaze shifting from one thing to the next. All the while, she continues to clutch her damn pearls as if my belongings are offensive and might cause me to end up in hell.
Little does she know that the furniture and most of the possessions in this apartment were purchased by Simone. I’m simply living in the space my sister vacated. But I won’t tell her that. It’s none of her business. I have no intention of telling her anything. I just want her to say her piece and leave.
She gasps and spins to face me. “Where is your sister? Does she live here, too?”
I shake my head.
