Page 17 of For Her Own Good

“If you have some flexibility with your schedule, I’d recommend you use that less-than-optimal-productivity time to go work out. A lot of people find that actually energizes them to finish out the rest of their days. You have a gym on-site at Harbinson, right? Or you could take a run around the neighborhood when the roads are finally clear. If you’d rather. I don’t know what you do when you’re at the gym.”

She seems flustered, and I don’t know why. Whatever it is, she shoves another bite of green beans into her mouth.

“Hmm. At present, everyone in the office keeps the same hours. Not sure I’d be able to find an admin who’d want to deal with that split schedule.”

Starla shakes off whatever had ruffled her feathers and gets back to business. “You might be able to if someone wanted the same break that works for you. That’s pretty likely, actually. Or you might be able to find someone who wants to start a few hours later who could work straight through. Or you can keep doing what you’re doing if it’s too much of a trial to change. But I think it’d be worth it to try. At least make the effort to ask. You asked me to do a lot more back in the day. Whether I could actually make it happen or not, I always did try.”

I know she did. Starla couldn’t always do what I asked of her. Sometimes it was too much and she literally couldn’t. The point of my asking wasn’t to make her fail, but so often to offer the chance to succeed. And I always made sure to praise her for whatever shehaddone. She was always so apologetic, but she needn’t have been.

“I know. I asked you for the impossible sometimes and you delivered with alarming frequency. I see you’re as tenacious as ever. So, yes, I promise to at least investigate the possibility.”

“Good. I expect you to report back next time.”

She seems to realize what she’s said—her eyes get wide and she immediately studies her plate rather closely. It’s a good-looking piece of fish, but not worth that much of her attention.

“I mean, whatever. You can call me. Or text. Texting’s good.”

“Or we could have dinner again next week,” I offer, trying to take the most casual bite of sole meunière that’s ever been taken. Because I don’t have strong feelings about wanting to see Starla again. Nor has a thrill run up my spine at the idea that she’d like to see me again too. That would be wildly inappropriate and would certainly mean I should head my growing attachment off at the pass.

But when she blinks those wide hazel eyes up at me, I know it’s hopeless. Now that I’ve made the offer there’s no way I’ll rescind it. And if she asks me for anything—anything at all—it’s hers. No question in my mind.

“Yeah?”

I nod, trying to ignore the tightness in my chest, no doubt from the tenterhooks I’m on, waiting for her to say yes. Despite the fact that it’s probably not a good idea. For either of us. At all. Too late. It is far too late. “Yeah. I’d…I’d like that, actually.”

She looks down again, pokes her fork at her fish, dislodging another flake that she spears and raises before looking at me. “This isn’t some kind of pity date, is it? Since I told you how pathetic my love life is? Not that it would be a date. At all. Just…”

“No, no pity here. You can pick up the check next time if it’ll make you feel better. It’s been nice, is all.”

She nods, her head bobbing thoughtfully. “Fine. Then I’ll see you same time next week. Different place. You pick.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The fish tastes more buttery, the wine cleaner and crisper. I have another not-date with Starla Patrick.

Chapter 6

Lowry

Every timeI have a not-date with Starla, dread gathers around my heart as I wait for her at whatever restaurant I’ve picked. Surely this will be the time that she realizes what a pervy old man I am, what I really think about as I sit across the table from her.

I fantasize about her. About what it would be like to go on a date with her, what it would be like to ask her to come home with me afterward. To strip her out of the pretty outfits she wears and see if the understated elegance but also, dare I say, cuteness persists to the layer of her underthings.

She has this way of dressing that’s mostly what one might expect from a very wealthy young woman, with clothes I can only imagine cost more than my rent, but there’s always a detail that’s almost…childish. A bracelet with a charm, a pattern on her sweater that recalls Alice in Wonderland or Peter Pan, the shoes that are yes, heels, but also have rounded toes with buckles and sometimes she pairs them with lacy socks with a fold-over frill. Does it speak to my depravity that I notice these things?

Things I have tried my best not to think at all ever for reasons that are ancient history yet still trouble my soul, but especially not within a hundred yards of Starla. It’s not right. No, it’s not right at all.

Once again, though, she silences the fear in my heart by showing up on time, her hair in a high ponytail with these sweet wild strands curling around her face and droplets scattered over her crown. My heart cannot take these things; it cannot take her.

But I can’t imagine not seeing her anymore. Perhaps it will always be a friendly dinner and I can live with that. Probably. Unless she keeps showing up looking as gorgeous as she does and then my heart may give out. It’s hers to do with as she likes, anyhow. Doddering old infatuated man, that’s me. I’m glad Maeve isn’t here to see how besotted I am. I don’t think it would hurt her feelings because I didn’t feel that way about her, but I would get mocked. Mercilessly. Deservedly.

I stand and greet Starla with a brief embrace, a brushed buss against her soft cheek. One of two times this evening I’ll allow myself the pleasure of touching her. She smells of rain, though it had only been cloudy on my way here.

“Sorry, I’m soaking wet. I didn’t grab an umbrella on my way out and by the time I realized it was going to rain, I would’ve been late if I went back to get one. Don’t get yourself drenched. Ugh.”

Despite her words, she doesn’t shy away from me but lingers and I take an extra breath of her. The sweet scent of her skin overlaid with the freshness of rain on asphalt. Intoxicating.

I’m well aware as we sit that people are looking at us, likely trying to determine what our relationship is. Father and daughter? Lovers? I’m sure psychiatrist and ex-patient never crosses their minds, which is just as well. I’m getting some dirty looks as it is.

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