Say You Will (Trust & Tequila Book 3)

8. Henry

eight

Amug of Earl Grey tea grows cold at my elbow as I type “How to give a woman an orgasm” in the search bar on my laptop.

If I ever convince Franki to give me a chance, the last thing I need is to turn out to be the worst sex she’s ever had. Being a bad lay is the opposite of romantic.

When the patio doors open behind me, I close my laptop with a snap and turn to see who’s joined me. Dad, striding out with an unpeeled orange in one hand, lifts the other in surrender. “I didn’t see anything.”

I’d classify his words as a blatant lie.

I slouch, leaning back in my cushioned wrought iron chair and tip my head back to look at the overcast sky. It’s not chilly, and it’s no longer raining. The flagstones glisten with a damp sheen, and the brightly colored fall foliage pops dramatically against the dreary gray backdrop. My father is the only person I’d ever speak to about this. And I will. When I’m done procrastinating by staring at the sky.

Once I’ve admitted to myself that I’m avoiding the subject, I can no longer continue to do so. With a sigh, I sit up straight and take the bull by the horns. “I’d like to speak to you about something in confidence. I need this to stay between the two of us. Personal, not business.”

Dad nods, pulls out another of the chairs, takes note of the fact that a staff member put out dry cushions after the rain, and makes himself comfortable. Only after he’s settled, does he look my way and say, “Go for it.”

“I’ve never had sex.”

Dad, visibly struggling to regulate his expression of surprise, contemplates my words as they hang in the air between us like a leaf caught on the wind. Finally, voice devoid of judgment, he asks, “Why?”

“I didn’t want to.”

Dad lifts dark eyebrows and drops his chin briefly. “That sounds like a perfectly good reason to me. Do you consider yourself asexual? Demisexual?”

I lift my mug to my lips and finish off the last of it before I admit, “I’m attracted to women sexually, but I refused to allow myself that level of physical vulnerability.”

Dad peels his orange. “Do you think it’s because it was a woman who nearly killed you when you were a child?”

“Some of it. Trust isn’t something I give lightly, and I believed it an unnecessary hurdle to overcome simply for the sake of sexual gratification.”

I collect my thoughts, then say, “That was true of my teens into my early twenties, anyway. After that, I was waiting.”

“You were waiting for someone you could trust?” Dad asks.

“Yes.” When I realize I’m tapping the patio table, I still my hand and repeat, “Yes.”

Dad offers me half his orange, and I shake my head.

“Have you found her, or have you decided you no longer want to wait?” he asks.

“It’s Franki. I asked her to marry me.”

Dad’s slice of orange hits the table when he fumbles it on the way to his mouth. He recovers and clears his throat. “You were waiting for Franki? That’s why you never had relationships?”

“You think that was foolish. To wait almost five years for a specific person.”

“Not even a little. I hadn’t been with anyone in at least that long when Charlotte and I got together.” Dad huffs. “I can’t believe it’s Franki. I’ve never seen two people so different from each other as the two of you. That’s saying something, considering your sister married Dean.”

I frown. “Franki and I are incredibly alike.” I could make a list as long as my arm of similarities we share. But maybe Dad is referring to her gentleness. Her optimism. The way she values feelings over practicality.

Dad’s mouth quirks, and he leans back in his chair. “In love with Franki Lennox. I never saw that one coming.”

I shake my head. “I’m not in love with Franki. I like her and I trust her.”

“You waited your entire adult life for her. I don’t believe you.”

The niggling suspicion that this is going to be even more complicated than I’d imagined when I’d spouted off my list of criteria tickles my conscience, and I actively shove it out of my mind. “She meets all of my requirements for a wife.”

“I heard about that list from your brother.” Dad leans back in his chair. “None of that is a good enough reason to get married. You marry when you find the right person, not to check a box. Franki is too sweet for what you have planned. If you offer her a business arrangement, she’ll be miserable with you.”

I’ll take it as a compliment it hasn’t occurred to Dad that she could . . . did . . . refuse my proposal. “I know she requires romance and emotional investment. I’ve decided to amend my approach to accommodate her needs.”

“Hmmm. But you’re not in love?” A breeze ruffles his steel gray hair as Dad watches me intently.

I shake my head.

“It would be best to tell her you changed your mind and avoid any hint of the two of you being near each other. Stay away from the house while she’s here. Go out with a few other women in the next couple of weeks.”

“I’m not going out with someone else.” Has he paid no attention to a word I’m saying? “It’s Franki or no one.” I rise, energy crackling through me.

If I can’t win her over, I lose those shares, but I refuse to look for another prospect. Failure isn’t an option. I recognize the illogical nature of the choice, even as instinct compels me to make it.

I’ll keep my cake and eat it too. The thought immediately segues into a sexually charged picture in my mind. Panties. Or more accurately, what those panties would look like on Franki’s body if I pulled them to the side and—What the hell is wrong with me?!

I move to the edge of the patio and reach for the fidget spinner in my pocket. When I don’t encounter plastic, I pull up short in surprise. Beneath my fingertips, something unfamiliar, silky smooth, yet textured, teases the corner of my mind. What the f—?

I draw the item out and stare. Franki’s panties. As if I conjured them from my thoughts alone.

“Are congratulations in order, then?”

I hastily return my ill-gotten booty to my pocket and turn back to my father. “She rejected my proposal.”

Dad’s eyebrows lift. “Did she now? Good for her.”

I scowl.

“Don’t be offended. She made the right choice for both of you. The last thing either of you needs is an arrangement lacking love. I’ve had the type of marriage you’re talking about, and it’s hell.”

“Your marriage now is happy?” There’s that word Grandmother used.

Dad smiles. “Yes. I love Charlotte and she loves me.”

“I need Franki to be happy.”

Dad smooths a hand over his hair. “You really want this woman? Her, specifically?”

“She’s not a woman,” I say. “She’s Franki.”

Dad grins. “First word of advice: don’t tell her that.”

“It’s a compliment.”

“I know what you mean by it, but you can find a better way to make her feel special that isn’t also an insult.”

Dad gets up and wanders to the short wall. He lowers himself to pluck a stray red maple leaf from the stone, then straightens. “I’m worried about her. You picked an innocent ball of sunshine. Franki is delicate.”

“You think she’s weak.” Disbelief laces my words.

“She’s fragile.”

“Franki Lennox is the most resilient person I’ve ever met. She lives with pain every day of her life and still manages to care about other people’s problems. She has a shitty family, and despite that, has goals, the capacity for humor, and, most remarkable of all, gentleness. She doesn’t break under pressure because she knows when and how to bend. Just because she isn’t hard doesn’t mean she isn’t strong.”

Dad nods, and I see the gleam in his eyes. He baited me deliberately to see if I’d come to her defense. His lips quirk, and he delivers his next words as if they’re a closing argument in a trial. “You waited for Franki your whole life. Your list of requirements for a wife were nothing more than her description, you want to make her happy, and you just professed your admiration of her character.”

Dad shakes his head. “You love her. Otherwise, what’s the point of any of it?”

I try to explain. “I used to feel things. It was torment. The faces of the victims from our missions haunted me. My brain buzzed with a constant onslaught of suffering. When it was over, I continued to hear the screams. I experienced guilt for not getting there fast enough. Not finding everyone. Not being enough.

“And it should disturb me. That’s part of being human, to flinch at the pain of other humans. But I closed that part of myself off. I robbed it of oxygen until it died. Now, I feel nothing when I’m in the middle of it and nothing when it’s over. I do what’s necessary. That’s it.”

Dad watches me for a moment before he speaks. “You were a sensitive child.”

“That was a long time ago. I don’t feel things the way other people do now.”

“Sometimes, we grow that hard shell to protect ourselves. If it’s prevented you from suffering, then I’m grateful for it.” Dad’s expression turns fierce. “It doesn’t make you a bad person. It makes you someone with coping strategies. You still care about your family. You’re capable of patience and gentleness and kindness. You can love. And you are lovable.”

He’s reminding me that love is more than a feeling. It’s a set of behaviors. I can’t do the whole “in love” thing, but I can provide care and attention.

I scowl. “I plan to love her. If she marries me, I’ll do it.”

Dad swipes a hand down his face.

The lace in my pocket is between my thumb and fingers now, a convenient outlet for the tension inside me. Flick. Flick. Flick. “I don’t know where to start.”

With narrowed eyes, Dad’s expression transitions slowly into a sly smile, and suspicion floods through me in response.

“I’m trusting you not to sabotage me,” I say.

He laughs at my frown. “I wouldn’t do that. Okay. I’ll be honest, it’s been a very long time for me, and I wasn’t exactly conventional. But first, I’d say you need to chill out some. Don’t say anything about sex at all for a while yet. Say something about her eyes or her hair. Let her know you admire her mind and personality.”

“All right.”

“Stop talking about relationships or any feelings for now. I know I said to love her, but you need to go slowly. You have the seeds already in you, but real love takes time to grow.”

I frown. I’m on a schedule here. I can’t afford some long, drawn out thing.

“Spend time with her. Find out what her favorite flowers are.”

“Peonies.”

“Ah. Good. So, listen to her when she speaks. Take her out to her favorite restaurant.”

“She doesn’t like eating in restaurants. She prefers to eat at home.”

Dad shakes his head. “Okay, then cook her favorite dinner. Laugh at her jokes. Express concern if she’s upset. Ask about her day and listen to her when she answers. Touch her arm or her hand when you speak to her. Watch her body language for signs of interest or discomfort. After a couple of months, you can talk about feelings. A few months after that, you can think about commitments.”

“I see.” His timeline isn’t going to work. I need a ring on her finger in less than four weeks. But the rest of his suggestions, I can manage. He’s telling me things I’m already doing naturally. That’s a good thing because it means I’m on the right track. It’s also disappointing that he isn’t offering some secret advice that would convince her to want me instantly.

I don’t understand Dad’s caution to wait months and months to move forward.

“Don’t smother her,” Dad says.

I move my lips into a smile as I process his conflicting suggestions. Compliment her, but only certain parts of her and only in certain ways. Tell her I’m attracted to her, but don’t profess to wanting a relationship. Seduce her, but be “chill.”

“You might consider asking Gabriel to take over some of your responsibilities. He’s bored and idle. He needs something to keep him on track, and it would give you time with Franki. Otherwise, you’ll be too busy to cook her dinner or convince her to give you a chance.”

It’s true that when we’re working seems to be the only time Gabriel isn’t partying, but I’m not certain that increasing his responsibilities is the answer. I have no plans to risk our reputation or profits in an experiment to find out. That is, if he even agreed to more responsibility, which is highly unlikely. I’ll make time for Franki, but I’ll carve it from somewhere else in my schedule. It’ll be easy if I give her a job that keeps her by my side.

Dad rises and picks up his orange peels, heading for the door.

I call after him. “I’m not planning to give Franki a miserable life.” For some reason, it seems critical to me he understands that.

Dad looks back over his shoulder. “You have to plant the seeds for a happy one. Misery grows all on its own.”