Page 39 of I Almost Do

“I want to talk about middle school.”

15

Brave

James

I only have three more nights of living under the same roof with my wife—who is also now, in her words, my girlfriend.

I draw the line at calling myself aboyfriend, if only because it’s been a damn long time since I was any kind of boy.

I love every second of it… except the parts where our physical contact is limited to “safe zones,” our hugs are brief, and I give her a sweet kiss at her bedroom door every night before walking back to my bedroom alone.

Those parts, however, can’t be helped.

Her departure for school is looming. No longer weeks away, it’s now a question of hours—approximately eighty, by my current calculations.

We only have three more of these dinners at home before she’s off living in a dormitory in a different state.

The thought is ridiculous. Her closet is bigger than a dorm room. But she sees it as an adventure, and I haven’t fought her on it.

She’s never had to share a room with anyone, let alone someone with a personality as forceful as Bronwyn’s. Again, I haven’t objected. At least not beyond my initial knee-jerk reaction. God knows it’ll be a learning experience for her.

In fact, I haven’t fought her on anything, mostly because I am entirely too aware of my own power. It’s not just that I have the ability to make things go my own way with the careful application (or removal) of funds—it’s that all I’d have to do is apply the smallest amount of emotional manipulation, and she’d fold like a cheap card table.

I’ve been careful not to do that to her.

But this? I’m putting my foot all the way down.

I shake out my napkin and lay down the law. “No.”

My answer ticks her off. I’m not even sure how I know that. It’s not like she ever says she’s angry, or even raises her voice. The closest I’ve ever heard it was that drunken squeak on our wedding night when I suggested we could have sex when she turned twenty-five.

Even when I goaded her to tell me to fuck off, she did it gently, almost as though she was indulging me.

Occasionally, she’ll show irritation—though you have to know her well to recognize the signs of it.

Clarissa Harcourt-Mellinger doesn’t slam doors or tell people off. She’s great at cajoling and charming people. She’s outright gifted at it.

I’d guess it’s something she learned watching her father. He took her with him often enough as he schmoozed everyone from heads of industry to world leaders.

But she doesn’t have the killer instinct he had. When push comes to shove, she backs off. Every single time.

For once, that’s a damn good thing.

She clears her throat. “Could you just think ab—”

“No.”

Our personal chef sets the last of our meal on the dining room table. “Is there anything else I can get for you?”

“We’re all set,” I say.

Clarissa smiles at the woman tightly. “Dinner looks lovely, Carol. Thank you so much.”

She pats Clarissa gently on the shoulder. “I made your favorite for dessert: double-chocolate cake.”

Clarissa nods and looks at her place setting. “Can’t wait,” she replies.

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