Page 91 of For Her Own Good

“I hate it. I hate it and I don’t want to do it anymore. But I also…”

She sets down what’s left of her cookie, closes her eyes, and sighs. When she meets my eyes again, I can see the toll this has been taking on her, the toll she’s been hiding from me. I bristle, but I’m also impressed. Strong as an ox, my little girl is.

“In the past few years my father had started talking like I might take over his empire when he retired. He’d started grooming me for it, asking me to come to cocktail parties where he’d introduce me to important people, asking me to sit in on calls, talking more business when I’d see him. I maybe should’ve nipped that in the bud because I have no interest in heading up Patrick Enterprises, but…”

For fuck’s sake. I know how much her father’s attention and approval mattered to her when she was a kid. Given how central he was in her life, it wouldn’t be surprising if she’d never moved on from that. I mean, hell, most things being equal, I think most people would like their parents’ approval.

Starla shrugs and her brows gather.

“It’d been kind of a long time since he seemed happy with me, proud of me. Really interested at all. And maybe it’s silly, but I didn’t want to let that go quite yet. Every time I saw him, I’d think, ‘This time I’m going to tell him,’ and every time, he’d seem excited at the prospect of me taking over and I…I just couldn’t. So you can imagine I had really mixed feelings when he left me the whole thing.”

She shakes her head, a rueful smile curling up the corners of her mouth.

“And maybe I should’ve already sold it off, but I keep dragging my feet. Not because I think I could actually pull off being in charge like he was, but I also don’t want to make a royal hash of it, you know? It’s not what he would’ve wanted, but I think it’s as good as I can hope for. Which I also hate.”

My stomach twists, because Christ almighty. It’s nice that Jameson finally recognized how capable Starla is, but trying to force her into the mold he occupied after having watched her struggle for years is… I always thought the man was selfish, but this makes me want to wring his neck. How could he? She’s found success on her own terms and in her own way, and how fucking dare he make her feel as though that wasn’t enough?

“So, uh, basically my goal has been to not fuck this up too badly? I don’t know that I’d be able to look at myself in the mirror if I destroyed everything he’s worked for or if I just fucking lost it because it’s ‘too much’ for me. I mean, I think I could live through that, not like…”

She waves a hand and the word may as well be spelled out in smoke. Suicide. She wouldn’t kill herself. But whatwouldshe do? I wait a beat for her to tell me.

“But I would feel like a real piece of shit, you know?”

Her throat works as she swallows hard and nods. She can’t meet my eyes, and I’m sorry for bringing it up. But only somewhat because at least I know now. And as I know from some of my pediatric patients before I left that line of work, knowing is half the battle. So I have more information now. That can only help. Me, anyhow. Starla, I’m not sure.

“So yeah, shitshow. I’ve got a meeting Friday that might help, might make it worse, but I can’t tell yet. Maybe Rhoda’s got some vodka in there, or something else to spike this?”

She picks up her glass of pink lemonade, tips it side to side.

“I might be able to offer something else to take your mind off it?”

This massive worry I’ve reminded her of, forced into her mind when she was just feeling satisfied and accomplished. Starla’s not the piece of shit here. I could've gone for the professional, rational choice of talking it through, but perhaps we’ll try that later as a longer-term approach to making her feel secure about her decisions. In the short term though, I’m going to go for something that will lift her burden quickly, clear her mind instead of burdening her further.

The way she perks up says she’s far more interested in my less responsible but more immediate solution.

“Yeah? What’s that?”

I push my chair out from the table and pat my lap. “Come here, princess.”

Her eyes and mouth widen into circles and her color gets even higher. “Here? Now?”

“Not if it’s not okay with you, obviously. We’re on your turf and I know you must be having some complicated feelings about that, so this is entirely up to you. But if you’re comfortable with it, or perhaps even if you’re not, but you’re curious and willing, I suspect I could make it worth your while.”

Starla’s shoulders make their way up toward her ears and she picks up her glass of lemonade with two hands and takes a sip. I’ll wait and watch, because as I said, this is her call.

If this is too much—and I can absolutely see how it might be—it’s truly fine. We’ll go home and have our fun there. But there aren’t many places where one can fool around outside in the city, and even fewer that offer the additional twist of danger or shame or that shock of taboo that comes along with being at the house she grew up in.

I’d like to take her inside, tie her down to her childhood bed, and ravage her, but that would definitely be a bridge too far, so I won’t even raise the question. I’ll simply think about it while I wait for her call.

While I wait, I take a sip of my Arnold Palmer, which has got to be one of the most delightful nonalcoholic drinks known to mankind. We’re both learning lots today, Starla and I.

She’s still clutching her lemonade between her fingers and looking at me over the rim of the glass, and I do my best to keep my expression neutral, because while I would very much like to have her in my lap—hell, over my knee—it’s as I’ve said. I’m not the one who’s in an awkward position here. Aside from interest because this is where my darling girl spent her formative years, this place means nothing to me.

After a few minutes of sipping our drinks while I squint up at the sunshine, Starla puts down her glass and takes up her phone, swiping a finger over the keys faster than I’ll ever be able to—she’s lucky I don’t still have a flip phone. Probably would, if Maeve hadn’t intervened.

Then there’s a thunk as Starla tosses her phone onto the table and a screech as she pushes the chair back on the flagstones. Apparently, someone’s made a choice. But whether it’s to come nestle her fine, round bottom into my crotch while she leans against my chest or to tell me it’s time to go home, I’m not sure.

She closes the gap between us, her expression one of skittish determination, and proceeds to sit on my lap with more of a plop than was probably necessary, then perches there as though she’s been instructed to demonstrate excellent posture. I have to keep from laughing because while I don’t think that would be appreciated, this is rather entertaining.

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