“What will you wear? Normally? Like a uniform? I’m afraid I don’t know how this works.”

I lean against the doorjamb, one hand shoved in my pocket. “When I’m out and about with you, I’ll wear a suit, no tie. In the house, jeans and a T-shirt or similar.”

“Why no tie?”

“Because it can be used against a person.”

She swallows and nods, turns her back to me, and walks to the fridge. Opening the door, she takes out a bottle of wine, unscrews the lid, and pours it into a glass she grabs from a cupboard. Leaning against the counter, she takes a deep sip and sighs as her shoulders relax a little.

Her father’s words ring in my ears. If I have to, I’ll pour all her wine down the sink. A glass or two is fine; her drunk and out of control is not.

“You may go and get changed,” she says without looking at me.

Fuck me, the sense of entitled superiority she shows at times really grinds my gears. A flash of a fantasy passes through my mind. Me telling her to kneel, and her doing so, as she looks up at me with those big, crystal clear orbs.

She wouldn’t be so fucking superior then, would she?

Jesus Christ, no. I push the thought far away. This is not the time or the place, and most definitely not the woman.

I can guaran-fucking-tee she doesn’t play that way and that I’m not her type. If she saw my dick, she’d probably cry, and not with joy.

Not answering her imperious comment, I push away from the door and head upstairs, carrying her bag to place on her bed before I get changed out of this fucking prison of a suit.

The next few weeks are going to be a pain in my ass.

3. Carolina

Chapter 3

Carolina

I drink the whole glass of wine, then pour another one.

Fuck Samuel, or Reaper, or whatever he’s called, for looking at me like I’m some lush. And that shit he said… I can go a few weeks without a drink. I went three months last year on a yoga retreat, so fuck you, Samuel.

Or is it Reaper? I heard damn clearly what Simon called him, but he cut it off as if there was more to follow. Reaper what? Reaper … anything is not good. I don’t even want to think how or why he got that nickname.

I feed Brutus with his evening tin of dog food. He eats more like a cat than a dog, dainty.

Grabbing some olives and a tube of Pringles, I head into the living room, and turn the television on. I flick through my planner of recorded shows until I find what I want, a period drama that is more steamy sex scenes than accurate Regency detail, but who cares.