Page 4 of Obsessed with my Guardian

“I’m sorry,” she says, knowing she’s gone too far.

A touch of pink stains her cheeks as she reaches for the roll of paper towel. She taps some water from the sink, then is on her knees cleaning the mess.

A rush of desire surges through me so fast, it’s like someone clocked my face. Twice. “You don’t need to do this.”

Looking at her on all fours is even worse than when she was all over me. I see the curve of her perky ass, and dirty images flood my brain.

I bend to her eye level and take a paper towel from her, drying it myself. Embarrassment flows through my veins. I’ve done this to her.

She’s going through a lot. She lost her father. And I’m being a brute. Cussing her out.

“Look, Eloise, I’m sorry I yelled at you. My mother was an alcoholic, and sometimes I get triggered.” I only tell her a partial truth. But it’s better than admitting to lusting over her. My past I can handle. The present, not so much.

She stops cleaning and sits on the floor. “Oh. I didn’t know.”

“Yeah. She’s good now. Clean for six years, but I didn’t have the best childhood.”

“I’m sorry.” She’s quick to show empathy, a quality I admire and another reason to stay the hell away from her. Eloise is too good for most people—certainly for me.

“Yeah... I don’t share this with a lot of people.” It’s true. I’m proud of my mother for her progress, but I only told the sad tale of my childhood to one girl I dated for a while because she questioned why my mother would never drink alcohol on special occasions. Even then, I was prompted to share. This is the first time I’ve volunteered the information.

“Thanks for sharing with me,” Eloise says, her tone genuine. She reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze. “You’ve been so good with Dad’s cancer and after his death. I’m so grateful. I’m sure your mom is proud of who you became despite all the adversities.”

A part of me softens, and warmth spreads through me. Is my mom proud of me? I guess. We don’t talk much about the past—mostly because of me. I don’t want to. I fought hard to forget the days I stayed home and watched my little sister when my mom was out at the liquor store, grabbing a bottle of the cheapest alcohol she could afford.

Strangely, that memory rushes back into my brain.

The lullaby I sang to my sister.

The apprehension eating up the mind of an eight-year-old boy, home alone.

“I never had a mom,” Eloise says. “So it may seem strange, but for many years, I wondered why she left me. Why she didn’t choose to be with me.”

“Maybe that was the best parenting she could do. To leave you with your dad. He did a great job.”

“That’s true.” She slowly disengages her hand from mine, and a shiver rolls through me. “I miss him.”

I shouldn’t, but I break my rule, put my arms around her, and envelop her in an embrace. I don’t know who needs it more right now, me or her. But we stay in each other’s arms, saying nothing for a few minutes with our silent grief.

Eloise sighs deeply into my shoulder, and I follow suit. She shifts, lifting her head and depositing a chaste kiss on my cheek. “Thank you,” she whispers before standing. “Let’s eat, then we’ll worry about the mess.”

I nod, even though it’s clear that this interaction has made my life messier than it’s ever been.

3

Eloise

There’sno way I’ll pull this off.

I take a deep breath and close the last button of the pantsuit I bought. It’s lavender, so it looks fun and classy, and not like I work for the FBI. I toss my hair to the side and run my fingers through it.

I’m visiting my dad’s office at the Dallas flagship health club today. Reed has been occupying my father’s office as Interim CEO. I’ve been in there many times, but it feels different now.

I stopped working at Work4Fitness after my father’s death. A leave of absence from the assistant manager position until I got my life together and returned as the big boss.

I’m eighteen. How can I keep his business?

I can’t screw things up. Dad worked hard, dedicating his life to two things: me and his business. Now, we’ll merge into one. I’m not ready, but does it even matter?

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