Page 62 of For Her Own Good

I’m such an arse. Yes, I wanted to know, and yes, I’m allowed to ask, but perhaps I could’ve done so more delicately. One thing I know for sure, though, is what Starla is worth to me, and tied irrevocably to that is her mental health.

“It’s priceless. You’re priceless.”

I reach for her hand that’s resting on the couch and she doesn’t snatch it away but allows me to take it up, bring it to my mouth where I kiss her knuckles, the top of her hand, before turning it over to reveal her palm.

So many lines and I know my gran would say Starla’s life is an unpredictable, riotous, beautiful disaster. I’m not sure she’d be wrong, but Starla’s done her very best to keep it from falling into disrepair and I shouldn’t do anything about that except allow her to run her ship as she sees fit. She’s a fine captain, and if she’ll let me, I’d like very much to stick around and be her first mate.

I kiss the inside of Starla’s wrist before biting the meaty padded section of her palm that joins her thumb and then each fingertip in turn. She lets me. And when I’m done, I press one more kiss to the palm of her hand before taking it and sliding it into the open neck of my shirt until it rests against my heart. Her hand is cold, as ever, so I’ll warm it with my body and let her feel that the muscle pumping my very lifeblood through my body beats for her, and always has.

* * *

Starla

Lowry’s warm. And charming. And brought me my favorite Chinese food. Which makes it easy to let the fit of pique dissipate. I know it’s foolish to live here while holding onto my father’s house, but I do. Oh well. I could do a lot worse things with the ridiculous amounts of money I’m currently sitting on.

Tad had called earlier today, as had a couple of the advisors I’ve been talking to, and it’s clear they’re all frustrated with me. The whole my-father-just-died thing is apparently wearing thin in the face of the grinding wheels of commerce. Part of me would like to hand it all over to Tad because what the fuck do I care? But the truth is that I do care and I don’t trust Tad to handle the business as my father would like. Although to be fair, I don’t trust myself to do that either. Which is a whole different smack in the face.

I need to shake myself loose of these thoughts. There’s nothing to be done about any of this tonight. What could be done, though…

Why does Lowry always smell good? And he looks so… I don’t even know. Precisely how a daddy should look, I suppose, with his heather-green collared shirt open a few buttons even as it’s tucked neatly into some dark grey slacks. His cuffs have ridden up enough as he sits that I can see his goddamn argyle socks. See, what I’d really like to do is crawl into his lap and straddle him, but I suspect he won’t allow those sorts of hijinks until I’ve eaten dinner to his satisfaction.

And right on cue, he’s drawing my hand out of his shirt and pressing another kiss to the inside of my wrist, which makes me all kinds of swoony for him.

“If you’ve forgiven me for needling you, I think you ought to eat some more.”

Yes, I suppose I should.

“Fine, but you’re going to let me have your fortune cookie as penance.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Ms. Patrick, but I accept your terms.”

He gives my wrist a little nip before letting me go and settles back with his takeout carton. I take a couple of bites from my own and then look over the white peaks of my open takeout box. He looks pensive, which you’d think I’d be used to, but I’m not. He’s usually so easy and present that him thinking about something other than what’s in front of him is noticeable.

“Penny for your thoughts. Or even your fortune cookie back.”

He blinks up at me with a sheepish smile. “Sorry, love.”

“Seriously, where’d your head go? Something going on with one of your patients? I know you can’t talk about them much and I’m not sure what to offer other than listening, but if you tell me what would be most helpful, I’ll do my best to do it.”

“It’s not that.”

He shakes his head and takes another bite of his shrimp. It looks really good and I wonder if he would share. Probably, if I asked nicely. If I were a brat, I’d reach over and snag one, but that’s not really my jam. I get that for some people that “in trouble” feeling is a rush. For me, it feels like nausea. I get enough of that when I’ve done my ECT, thanks.

“Then what is it? And can I have one of your shrimp while you oh-so-carefully formulate how to say this?”

The corners of his eyes crinkle when he laughs and holds out his food. The shrimp is sticky, so when I snatch one, it comes away with clumps of rice stuck to it. It’s far from ladylike, but I stuff the whole thing in my mouth and chew. It’s really fucking good—the crispy fried coating gives way to the specific tenderness of the shrimp and the whole thing is covered with honey sauce and tiny bits of crunchy walnuts, and I don’t know, it’s like a symphony in my mouth. I’m totally getting this next time. Or just eating more of Lowry’s. Whatever.

Indeed, he doesn’t seem to be composing his thoughts into sentences but watching me eat. It’s possible I made a noise.

“You seem to be enjoying that immensely. Would you like to trade?”

If I were a grown-up, I’d rebuff his offer. But I’m not, so I shove my half-eaten lo mein at him and he looks at me from under his ginger brows like I’ve pleased him somehow as he hands over the rest of his food. Yep, it’s so good.

“Well, now that I’ve buttered you up with my dinner, what I was going to say is that I have more questions for you, but I feel as though I’ve poked you enough for one evening.”

It’s clearly been a while since Lowry was a thirteen-year-old boy, because I make the obvious joke through a mouthful of shrimp and rice. “I think you’ve poked me not at all and that’s nowhere near sufficient.”

“I meant mentally.”

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