Chapter Eight
Lemon
She’s breathtaking, the woman in the entryway portrait. Waves of golden hair flow down her right shoulder and complement her amber eyes. The left shoulder remains bare, and her smile tells that it was purposeful. I like her instantly.
My new employer’s wife, I suppose.
He did well, I’ll give him that. Hot little booty waiting at home and a six-bedroom estate in the fancy part of Pine Forest? Not too bad. Unfortunately, it’s nowhere remotely walkable to any of my friends.
I’ll have to borrow a car if I want to see Shana or Jeremy, but it could be worse. At least it’s close to home.
A weight lifted off my chest when Phillip snuck me the coordinates on the ride over.
I’ll still be able to manage my properties and check in on things Papa doesn’t know about, like the apartments I make available to the women and children’s shelter.
It’s not that I think he’d be angry or be able to stop me, it’s just… not how things are done.
Jeder ist seines Glückes Schmied, he’d say.
Be the smith of your own luck.
But one man’s biases are not another man’s truths.
I make a mental note to wire Katie all the funds I have in my backup vault. She can take care of everyone without Papa’s accountant scrutinizing each cent like I fear he’s been instructed to start doing.
That’s home.
The apartments. The town. Katie and the kids we help. My friends.
This will never be home, even if it does remind me of the mansion I grew up in, a miniature version, which feels elitist to admit.
I’ve been privileged; it’s an inherent knowledge.
When the President sends you a shiny red tricycle for your third birthday, you begin to gather the clues, even if my father did attempt to keep me somewhat humble with public school and sports.
Peers in my tax bracket would have killed for that alternative to their own, prep schools and press galas becoming more important than friends by the time they reached their teens.
At least Papa gave me that.
I hate that I must hate him now.
No one seemed to notice my entry, so I snoop for clues in the expansive foyer. Who am I working for?
And how can I get them on my side sooner than later?
I’ve met a few of my father’s upper crust over the years, but I wasn’t exactly briefed on their family lives…not that I cared.
There’s only one man on the Perkins payroll I ever wonder about, and it’s not the size of his living room I’m pondering when I do.
The decorations are scarce. A few crayon-drawings are Scotch-taped to the walls at average kid-height, telling me it’s not the parents choosing décor, and even though I detest children for the most part, I can’t help smiling at the artwork, a tall man in an all-black suit holding hands with two little girls.
One wears a scribble-scrabbled pink dress and the other purple overalls.
Tiny music notes pepper the air, dancing with rainbow butterflies, and I love that.
It’s how my mind always feels, swirls of music and nature and life creating movement in my soul.
Cami has signed the picture in the bottom right corner in bright pink pastel, the same shade used for the man’s heart eyes.
A man wearing a blue badge.
With red lettering.
Standing in front of a large, black bus.
I know it, even before I hear his clipped vexation or see the glower he reserves exclusively for me. Tragically ironic that it’s the same thing about him that makes my muscles clench down low.
“You.”
A fact.
Not a question or “Hello, how are you? Oh, your dad paid me, quite literally, millions to imprison you…” Nope.
Just one word.
A finger pointed at a broken doll.
A mess.
And fuck me, but I’m tired of messes being messy just cause men say it’s so.
And I hate that I want this grumpy man in front of me even more, because he doesn’t want me back. No matter what his body says, he doesn’t want the whole of me, not the parts that matter.
But I’m more than the package I come wrapped in.
“You are…reckless…not just with your body, but your heart.”
I might be this man’s new nanny, but I’ll be damned if I become his mistress, even if my pussy does part ceremoniously for the rumble of his voice.
If he wants me, he wants all of me. I’ll close my legs, chauffer the thumb-suckers to swim practice, and collect my trust when the summer’s through, leaving all prospects of Daddy Nashville and his gargantuan sweatpants-clad cock behind me.
Here.
In his house.
Where we will both be sleeping.
I allow my eyes to flick down his body, lingering anywhere the fuck I want to make him steam, before leveling them back to his irritated orbs.
He crosses the foyer to stand far enough away that I can’t suck his blood, eyeing me wearily, as if my father didn’t just pay him entire islands for my captivity.
Smart man.
“You came early,” he rasps.
Don’t say it, I tell myself.
But it’s not like me to obey.
“No, Mr. Nashville, you came early. If I remember correctly, I didn’t come at all.”
He stills, face redder than I’ve seen, and I delight in that fact. Smirking outright, I stalk forward and straighten his tie, and the horny fucker lets me, because of course he does.
His Adam’s apple bobs, and he moves to speak, but nothing comes out, as if every thought he had in that courtly silver head has vanished and been replaced by the shape of my lips.
I run my tongue across them, making certain they’re good and wet, and I relish every second of his unease as I march myself up the staircase and make myself at home.
“Don’t worry, Daddy,” I call down the stairs. “I’ll be good if you will.”