PRIMROSE
Oh, bloody hell, I think as I hurry away. I can’t believe I did it again, that I let my body rule my mind. I let his mouth rule the entirety of me! Aural and oral, the whole shebang. But at least we didn’t…
I love nothing about how this situation makes me feel.
Dominant Dad turns Naive Nanny Nympho.
The ridiculous phrase I hurled at him rattles through my head.
It was meant to be an insult—something I accused him of thinking about!
But, right now, I’m wondering if the outburst was subliminal.
There seems to be more than a drop of truth in it.
He is a little domineering, and I seem to be into the dynamic.
It’s utter stupidity—complete selfishness.
I try very hard to ignore the way my body still throbs thanks to his mesmerizingly talented tongue as I hurry by a console table and its tastefully styled objet d’art. My steps suddenly falter as my brain’s early warning system detects a gecko on the wall high above it.
I hyperventilate a little, but eventually peel myself from the opposite wall and hurry onward.
I know I said I’d take Sylvie to the pool, but what I want to do is get into bed and pull the blankets over my own head.
This isn’t me, this creature who can’t control her own impulse.
I’m the person who always does the right thing—even when there’s no one watching.
Five minutes with Luc, and logic, principles, and my sense of decency all fly out the window. But that’s on me. I am entirely the author of my own undoing.
Alejandro, why the heck did I have to mention him? I think with an internal groan. It must’ve been the noise of the lawnmowers, not that the reason makes any difference. I shouldn’t have said it—I just let my mouth run away with me.
No thanks, M. LDH, I won’t need your services again. I just need to make sure I’m not broken by spreading my sexual wings, starting by shagging one of your men, m’kay?
Spoiler alert: it was not m’kay. It was not m’kay at all.
I should’ve been less specific—I shouldn’t have used Al’s name. Should I warn him? Urgh, I can’t admit I’ve used him as bait, inadvertently or not, because then I’d have to admit to—at a bare minimum—having those kinds of conversations. With our boss.
Cringe.
I might as well just admit that we’ve smashed. Banged. Screwed. Got down and dirty. Did the deed. Because we have, no matter how I’d tried to tell myself it didn’t count.
Get your head on straight—bring back Prim Primrose, please!
And what if I do warn him, and he turns out to be a gossip? The news might spread, maybe even to the tabloids. This family—my family—don’t deserve that. What the heck am I going to do?
“Did he rip you a new one?”
“Argh!” My hand flies to my mouth as I almost collide with Zoe as I round the corner. “You nearly gave me a flippin’ heart attack!”
“You’re not crying. That’s a good sign.”
He doesn’t make me cry. He makes me sing.
Her eyes flick over me and land on my neck. “You gonna tell me who the artist is—was it Alejandro?”
“No!” I clap my hand over the hicky. “Honestly, I don’t know where the bruise came from. I haven’t been anywhere, and I haven’t done anything.” Lies. “I just woke up this morning looking like this.”
“Girl.” Her mouth twists.
“It’s true. So unless there’s a ghost in this house, I’ve got nothing.”
“A vampire.”
“What?”
“Vampires bite. Ghosts rattle chains and shit.” Her gaze is so sharp, it’s almost surgical. “So what was with the sudden and intense need to speak to you?” She gestures behind me with her head.
“The boss? Just a checkup. To see how things are going.”
“Nothing to do with the hickey the size of Ontario.” She mimes a C shape in the vicinity of her neck, then peeks around the corner into the kitchen.
“You haven’t left them alone in there, have you?” Not that I think world war will ensue.
“Just Sylvie, and she’s watching someone make chocolate chip cookies on my phone. Kinda odd that he didn’t mention it, though. He’s a total control freak around the kids.”
“Maybe he didn’t notice.” I try to keep the edge of frustration from my tone.
She snorts.
“Then maybe he doesn’t care.”
“That man would care. Respectable is his middle name, or something.”
If only you knew. “Well, I suppose he must’ve fallen for your explanation. Thanks for that, by the way.”
“You’re welcome,” she says, slightly mollified. “I guess if anyone is going to believe that garbage, it would be a man.”
“Totally.” I give an agreeing roll of my eyes. “I should go in.” I gesture to the kitchen.
Sylvie is perched at the marble counter, Zoe’s phone propped on a container.
Chin in her hands, she is entirely absorbed by a video of a disembodied hand stirring a bowl of cookie dough.
The room smells of cinnamon and coffee with just a hint of tart lemon cleaner as every surface gleams. If only brains were as easy to wipe clean.
“Hey, poppet,” I chirp overly bright. I’m not being fair to these kids. But then, neither is he.
“Look, I have on my swimsuit!”
“So I see.”
“But you do not.”
“Well spotted,” I say, tugging her unruly braid. “I will, but first, coffee.”
“Café? Yuk!” she says emphatically.
“Well, I didn’t finish my breakfast.”
“Before Papa got cross with you?”
“What?” My attention flicks Zoe’s way.
“Don’t worry, Primrose. Papa is never angry for long.”
I’m not hungry, but if I loiter with an audience, M. LDH might leave for work before I appear in my bikini. Not that I think the sight of me will prompt him to ravish me in full view. But I will feel awkward.
I jab the double-shot button with unnecessary force, ignoring the sense of Zoe’s eyes on me as I manhandle the cup under the portafilter. Good thing Emmy isn’t here. She’d guess I was hiding.
Coffee made, I lean against the counter, wrapping my hands around the mug.
It’s too hot to drink but I sort of want the sting.
I deserve some kind of punishment. Something sharp and slightly painful to remind me of who I am.
Where I am. I’m not in his arms. I’m not falling in lust. I’m not and will never be pressed to a sun-warmed window and fucked.
I’m Primrose. Sensible. Reliable. Steady. And I’m here to do a job and protect my best friend’s livelihood.
“Primrose? Primrose?”
“Sorry, sweets.” I turn to Sylvie, though she doesn’t look up from the phone.
“Is Alejandro your boyfriend now?”
I tighten my hand on the hot mug. “No, not at all. Alejandro is—he was just being friendly.” I sound defensive; even I can hear that.
Zoe mutters something I don’t catch as she rounds the island and pulls a binder from the drawer.
“I think Papa does not like that you have a boyfriend.”
“What do you mean? I mean, I don’t have a boyfriend, and I’m sure your dad doesn’t care either way.” I glance at Zoe, my expression very much: can you believe this crazy pants kid?
“You should tell him you don’t want a boyfriend.”
“Tell your dad?” I give a terrible sounding laugh. “He wouldn’t be interested.”
“Not Papa.” The little girl turns her blue owl-like eyes my way as though she can see right through me and my wobbly excuses. “Alejandro.”
“Oh.”
The silence that descends over the kitchen is bloody deafening.
“Felix, he said you must have a boyfriend,” Sylvie adds, turning back to the phone. “Because you have the bruise on your neck.”
“He said what, now?” I shake my head as she begins to answer my (mostly) rhetorical question.
“He said that sometimes ladies and men do things when they get…” She screws up her nose as though searching for the correct term.
My stomach drops. Oh no. Oh no. Please don’t say anything related to what he was watching last night.
“Excited,” she finishes, thank God.
I swallow, forcing my heart back down my throat. “Well, Sylvie, all I can say is that no one is getting excited. Not around me.”
Zoe snickers as I brace to be struck down from above.
“Bon. I say that if any boy gets excited around me, I will give him a bruise like this!” Raising her hand, Sylvie makes a chopping motion to her neck. “And then I will spit on him, just like Lola.”
I might try that myself. Except, isn’t spitting a big thing in porn? Where did I hear that? And then I remember it was El, my brother. Another Sunday lunch oversharing session. Double ew.
“If Felix is wrong, what did you do to hurt your neck, Primrose?”
Well, it’s like this, Sylvie; I’m not hurt, exactly.
I mean, physically, I’m a little achy, but in a good way.
However, emotionally, I appear to be tying myself up in knots, because your dad makes me forget everything I am.
And everything I’m not. And if you want to know what that means, or have any more questions, I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait a few years. Then ask your dad.
“It’s just a silly mark, sweetie. And Felix is right, grownups do get bruises from being, er, excited. But sometimes they just appear for no reason. The same as when… when you bump into the coffee table—”
“A really tall coffee table,” Zoe mutters as she flicks through the binder.
“—but you forget that you have,” I say, ignoring that. “And when you notice the bruise, you wonder where it’s come from because, of course, you don’t remember walking into the coffee table!”
“Or limbo-ing under it.” Brows riding high, Zoe violently flicks another page.
“Anyway, I better get dressed for the pool,” I announce, grabbing a banana from the lavishly endowed fruit bowl. “Can Sylvie keep you company for a few?”
“Sure,” Zoe answers. “Hey, kiddo,” I hear her say as I leave the room. “How do you feel about prawn linguine for dinner?”