Chapter 9
I awoke the next morning to the sounds of Sinclair’s door opening—but he wasn’t leaving.
Instead, he was entering, light streaming inside through the sheer curtains.
For a moment, I panicked.
Would anyone have been able to glimpse through them last night to see what we were doing?
But as I looked over at them, I couldn’t see the yard outside.
Although they were sheer and let plenty of light in, they weren’t so filmy as to be see-through.
As he walked past the bed, I said, “Morning.”
He was wearing shorts and a t-shirt, no doubt returning from the third floor where he’d been working out.
“Good morning, lovely. How did you sleep?”
“Great.” It was true—except for twice in the night when I’d had to turn and felt the pain between my legs, I’d slept like a baby.
And he’d held me most of the night.
I hadn’t expected it, but I’d appreciated it.
Sitting up, I swung my legs over the side of the bed.
He asked, “Did you want to shower?”
Remembering what he’d said the night before about discretion, I responded, “I should probably do it in my room.” He nodded as I stood but didn’t say anything.
“And I should probably grab my clothes out of the bathroom before you shower.”
“I can buy you new clothing, by the way.”
Where had that come from?
“My clothes are fine.”
He didn’t say anything else about them as I began hobbling toward the bathroom.
Until I’d stood, I hadn’t noticed that the pain from losing my virginity was far more than I’d expected.
It hurt far less when I didn’t move.
He asked, “Can I help?”
“No, I’m okay.”
But when I returned from the bathroom with all my clothes gathered up, he said, “We can’t have you moving around like that. Edna will ask questions.”
“What am I supposed to do then?”
He smiled, pulling me into an embrace, the clothes in my arms preventing us from getting too close.
“You’ll take a sick day. I’ll let Edna know you’ve texted me that you’re not feeling well, so you’re taking the day off from work.”
“But what about meals? It will still be obvious when I go to the kitchen.”
The way he looked at me made me want to do whatever he asked, no matter how silly.
“You’re sick in bed. Edna will bring the food to you.”
“Okay.”
He kissed me on the forehead and swatted me on the bottom.
“So you’d better get in bed.”
I frowned.
One day, I wanted to watch him get ready.
I wanted to see him work out, then shower and shave, groom every hair into place.
I wanted to see how he chose his suit for the day and watch as he put on everything, covering up that rock-hard body and that dick I was beginning to think of as mine.
But that would have to wait for another day.
“Okay. Have a good day at work.”
“I always do.” His smile nearly wrecked me—until I had to make that trek down the hall.
Yeah…having him inside me again was going to have to wait a day or two.
After checking my phone to make sure I hadn’t missed anything, I sent Sinclair a real text message, asking if he or Edna could also retrieve my laptop from downstairs.
He texted back, It’s a sick day.
You shouldn’t be working.
I couldn’t help but sass a little.
I won’t be working. I’m going to submit my application to DU.
That can wait until tomorrow.
And, as usual, his say was final.
Or I’d let him think as much.
But it would not wait until tomorrow.
If he wouldn’t bring the laptop, I’d complete the application with my phone.
Although it would take a little longer, I considered myself fairly adept at doing things on mobile just as well if not better than on a computer.
If that didn’t work, I’d sneak downstairs to get it myself.
If Edna caught me, I’d just say I wanted a cup of hot tea and company.
But I knew she would be in my room soon with breakfast, so I had to figure out what my supposed malady was—and I settled on tummy troubles.
It would be far easier to fake a stomachache than it would be a cold or flu, and I’d never had a cold in August anyway.
Meanwhile, I was still wearing Sinclair’s oversized white t-shirt.
That wouldn’t do. I grabbed the short nightgown I’d worn the night before last and put it on, tucking Sinclair’s shirt in a drawer.
As I sat there waiting, my mind drifted back to the night before.
If someone had told me two months ago that I would fall in love with—and be intimate with—Sinclair Whittier, I would have told them they were crazy.
But it was true. I was falling in love with him.
That said, it wasn’t unconditional.
If I had to choose between him and my father, I’d choose my dad.
But if I had to choose between a life alone and being with Sinclair, it was an easy decision.
Although these feelings that had grown overnight from interest, intrigue, and lust into something far more significant, they were strong.
I’d never felt like I did right now about another man.
It was consuming.
As if watching a movie in my mind, I replayed every moment—from the bath to snuggling in bed—and I decided I needed to be responsible.
I would have to get on some form of birth control soon.
I was glad Sinclair had used a condom, and I tried not to think about why he had one at the ready—but, more importantly, I knew if I planned to be sexually active, I needed to take precautions as well.
Because, as I thought again about last night, I knew I would have probably had him take my virginity anyway, even if he hadn’t had protection.
I didn’t want to get caught off guard ever.
I also knew there was a possibility that maybe this was just another game—but I didn’t think so.
Based on past experiences with him, it would be easy to assume that he simply liked the idea of having a young woman nearby to fuck whenever he wanted, and I couldn’t help but forget the time he’d offered to cut my sentence in half if I would do just that.
So, yes, in the back of my mind, I recognized that this was possibly a way for Sinclair to have his cake and eat it too.
But I couldn’t quite accept that notion…
because the man I’d seen last night had been vulnerable, tender…
loving .
Could that have been an act?
There was a light rapping at the door, so I said, “Come in,” hoping I’d made my voice sound weak enough that my supposed illness wouldn’t be questioned.
The doorknob turned, but there was a long pause before the door was pushed open.
When I saw the huge tray Edna carried in, I understood why.
She’d likely set the tray on the table in the hallway so she could open the door before entering.
“I’m so sorry you’re not feeling well, child. What’s bothering you?”
“My stomach.”
“Oh, dear. You might not want to eat at all.”
“I do.” After last night’s activities, I was nearly starving—but I hoped I didn’t convey that to Edna.
I added, “I think the worst has passed.”
“Good. Fortunately,” she said, bringing the tray to my bed, “most everything here is fairly bland, which is supposed to be good for you when you don’t feel well.”
The tray held two slices of buttered wheat toast, a peeled banana cut into chunks, a small bowl of oatmeal, a glass of water, and a cup of tea, along with a teapot and a small bowl of sugar.
“Thank you so much, Edna. This is so kind of you.”
She beamed as she rested a corner of the tray on the nightstand, picking up the pitcher and sugar off the tray and placing them on the polished surface.
“I was happy to do it. Do you feel like you could hold this on your lap?”
Sitting up, I replied.
“I think so.”
“Would you like me to open your curtains? Get some sun shining in here?”
“Yes, that would be nice.” I wanted to begin devouring my small meal and thought better of it.
Someone who’d supposedly spent the night before throwing up might eat gingerly.
“I must admit I’ll miss you at lunch today.” When she finished opening up the drapes around the room, she said, “But there’s always tomorrow. What do you think about grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup?”
More mostly bland food—but that was okay.
It was only until I could walk like a normal human being—which I was going to try after I showered.
“That sounds fine, Edna. Thank you.”
Just as she was walking out the door, she said, “I suppose I should give you my cell phone number so you can call it if you need something.” I agreed and added her number to the short list of contacts in my phone.
“Otherwise, I’ll be back in a few hours to check on you.”
After she closed the door, I gobbled the food as if I hadn’t eaten in days.
It was almost funny, considering how I’d refused food over and over the first week or so I’d been here.
As always, Edna’s food soothed my hunger pangs along with my soul—and I got to work.
First, I showered. Part of me was sad that I was washing off every trace of Sinclair—every kiss, every touch, his lingering scent.
Although I was a little sticky between the legs, I knew that was because of me and not him, because the condom had prevented those fluids from entering me.
But I was curious what even that would feel like.
I could if I were on birth control.
When I got out of the shower and dressed, I was still hobbling around.
I couldn’t force myself to walk normally unless I moved very slowly.
Fortunately, it didn’t hurt as much, and I hoped I would be back to normal by tomorrow.
It would be hard faking sick two days in a row—especially after I’d told Edna the worst had passed.
But I was suddenly struck with inspiration—and it was based on something that had happened to one of my few friends in high school.
She’d become sexually active our junior year and started feeling ill not long after her first time.
Like me, she didn’t have a mother in the picture, but her father wasn’t nearly as caring as mine—so she didn’t talk to him about anything.
One day she confided in me.
“It’s one of three things,” she said.
“It’s either a yeast infection, a bladder infection, or I’m pregnant.”
“What?” I had a hard time rectifying all the possibilities.
And I’d wanted to ask why she hadn’t used protection…
but part of me wondered if she’d wanted to get pregnant all along so she could get out of her dad’s house.
Of course, her getting pregnant happened at the beginning of our senior year, but when she went to the doctor before that, she found out she had a urinary tract infection.
“A bladder infection on steroids,” she’d said—but a little medicine cleared it right up.
Maybe I could use this supposed illness as an excuse to see a gynecologist…
I could look up the symptoms and tell them to Edna, asking her to get me an appointment.
I knew doctors were bound by confidentiality, so whatever happened behind those doors would be my business alone.
So, after doing a little research, I sent Edna a text, asking if I could talk to her for a minute about seeing a doctor.
I expected her to call when she got the message but she instead came upstairs.
I’d put on a pair of clean pajamas, a lavender top with long sleeves and pants made of light, breezy fabric.
I thought that might add to the belief that I wasn’t feeling well.
When Edna arrived, she first asked, “Did you want more tea, dear?”
“No, thank you. I’m all right.”
“Ah…you ate it all. Did it not set well?”
“No, it’s okay. It’s, um…something else. I don’t know if it’s related to how my stomach felt, but it’s in the same area. I’m—hurting below. You know, kind of itchy and painful.”
“Oh. In your… feminine area?”
“Yes.” It wasn’t entirely untrue.
There was some residual pain—but not due to an infection.
“Hmm. I could pick up—”
“Would it be possible to see a gynecologist? I’ve never had this before and I’m not sure what’s happening.”
Edna nodded.
“Of course. I can make an appointment.”
“That would be wonderful.”
“Do you have your insurance card? Did Mr. Whittier give that to you?”
“Yes.” He’d given me all that information during our second Sunday meeting.
“All right. I’ll be back.”
I hated the idea of Edna having to walk up and down the stairs constantly—and, besides, I had another mission I wanted to accomplish.
“You can send me a text—just let me know what time.”
“It might not be for today,” she said, picking up the much-lighter tray off the dresser where I’d set it, along with the teapot and sugar.
“But we could always go to urgent care.”
No…
I needed a gynecologist. “As a last resort.” If my idea didn’t work, I’d have to figure something else out—and maybe even involve Sinclair.
“Okay. I’ll see what I can do and let you know.”
“By text?”
“Yes.” Soon she was out of the room, and I walked in bare feet over to the door, hoping to hear her progress.
But today she wore shoes with rubber soles that didn’t make much noise.
And I needed my phone anyway, in case she texted me when I was wandering around.
I went back to the nightstand and grabbed it, checking messages like a lovesick girl, wishing Sinclair would text me.
But, of course, he wouldn’t.
I knew there were more reasons for not sending me a message than for it, but I still wished inside he would.
I wanted some reassurance that he felt the same way I did even when I knew that was silly and probably stupid.
Although I believed with all my heart that what we had shared last night was genuine, it didn’t mean Sinclair had the capacity to love or care.
In fact, all signs pointed away from it.
When I had assured myself that Edna had had plenty of time to make it down the stairs and into the kitchen, I opened my door.
I knew, though, that she might leave the kitchen at any time and, if she did, she could easily spot me.
So, as I crept down the stairs, my ears perked for any sounds, I decided that I’d use the excuse I’d thought of before.
I wanted tea or water or something and should have asked for it before but didn’t think of it.
Walking down the stairs, it was less evident that it hurt to move my legs, at least to me.
It looked almost normal.
When I got to the bottom of the staircase, I let out a soft breath.
I only had a few feet until I got to the downstairs door.
And then I realized how stupid this had been.
If I’d gone to the other side—down the east stairs and the newly fixed stairs to the dungeon, I’d have been less likely to have been spotted by Edna.
That too was foolish, though, I thought as my hand wrapped around the doorknob heading downstairs.
If she’d caught me on the second floor landing next to the forbidden east wing, I’d have even more trouble.
Because, even though she’d never said it, I knew Sinclair would have told her about my transgression.
How else could he have explained that offensive maid’s uniform at the dinner party?
Finally, the knob was twisted as far as it would go and I slowly pulled the door open.
It wasn’t until then that I heard Edna’s voice coming from the kitchen—but it was muffled, so I didn’t know if she was in the pantry or the main area.
Regardless, I knew I needed to move, because she was talking to someone who might leave the kitchen at any moment.
Once the door was closed, I hustled down the stairs—but, not wanting another injured ankle, I held onto the smooth railing as I descended.
The laptop was on top of the filing cabinet, just where I’d left it.
The thing didn’t like to hold a charge, so I took the cord as well and wrapped it up, holding them both in my arms.
What would I say now if I were caught?
What would be a good excuse?
Boredom?
At the top of the stairs, I slowly turned the doorknob, holding the laptop and charger in my left arm.
Once I slowly cracked the door, I strained my ears, but I couldn’t hear anything.
Finally, I stuck my head out and looked all around—down the main hallway both ways and peering over, trying to see down the west rear hallway where the entry to the kitchen was located.
But I didn’t see a thing.
I couldn’t hear anything, either.
So I moved rapidly, closing the door quietly behind me and then all but running to the stairs.
It wasn’t until one of my feet touched the first tread that I heard Edna’s voice again.
But it was still muffled, although I imagined it getting closer.
So I took the steps two at a time, not looking behind me until I reached the top.
Once there, I glanced back down the hall, into the antechamber below, and up to the east side, even to the third floor.
But I couldn’t see a soul.
Back inside my room, I let out an even bigger sigh of relief, realizing I’d broken a sweat.
Wiping my brow, I moved over to the bed and sat down.
Then, when I felt my phone vibrate in my pajama pants pocket, I pulled it out.
It was a simple message from Edna.
Gyn appt at 2:00. We’ll leave here at 1:30.
She’d worked a miracle, underscoring once more why Sinclair relied on her like he did.
And it turned out that she was doing the same thing for me.
Now if I could only keep her from knowing my business as much as she knew Sinclair’s—that would be a miracle if I could get away with it.