Thirteen – Harrison
THIRTEEN
HARRISON
T he American Agricultural & Sustainability Summit website is filled with more pictures of people in suits that people on farms. And sadly, most of the images features those who look like they negotiate with the exact kind of people in my family.
Go figure.
I’m halfway through a video of last year’s top deal winner—a guy in a Tom Ford suit and a cornstalk brooch—when there’s a knock at my door.
Eliza.
“Is something wrong?” I ask.
“Yes.” She bites her bottom lip, and my cock stirs instantly.
Great. Another cold shower it is.
“I picked up the wrong suitcase at the airport,” she says, rolling it past me. “None of this stuff is mine.”
She unzips it, revealing a stack of Hawaiian shirts and flip-flops.
“I packed some really personal stuff in mine.” Her voice edges toward panic. “What if the person just throws all my things away?”
“They probably won’t. I’ll call the airport and handle it,” I say. “Is that all?”
“I didn’t pack any clothes in my carry-on, so I literally have nothing to wear.
Unless you expect me to walk around naked for the next few days.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time…”
I walk over to my dresser and pull out a stack of plain gray T-shirts and matching briefs.
She eyes them like they’re poisonous.
“I’ll have your clothes back by this weekend.” I press the pile into her hands.
“Okay.” She leaves the suitcase where it is and disappears down the hall.
I assume that’s the end of it—until she shows up in my doorway again, moments later.
Wearing my clothes.
And the pink stilettos I completely forgot about.
“Why didn’t you buckle the backs of the shoes?” I ask.
“I was thinking I should cut that part off,” she says. “Unless I’m allowed to wear socks with them?”
“Absolutely not.” I shake my head. “Buckle them. Now.”
She hesitates.
So I kneel and fasten them for her, letting my fingers linger on her skin longer than necessary.
“Okay,” I say, standing again. “Whenever you’re not asleep or eating, you wear heels. No exceptions.”
“But—”
“It’s the only way you’re going to learn, since you’ve somehow made it through life without ever wearing a pair.” I nod at the floor. “Walk. Let’s see what we’re working with.”
She hesitates, then takes a single step—almost toppling into a chair before steadying herself.
Like a toddler taking her first steps, she stretches her arms for balance and wobbles with every movement.
Jesus Christ…
“Okay, okay, this isn’t that bad.” She grins and leans against the wall. “I don’t look that terrible, right?”
‘Terrible’ would be generous.
“Do it again,” is all I say.
She takes five shaky steps. Then seven.
Just when it looks like she might actually make it across the floor?—
She face-plants.