Page 42 of I Almost Do

Clarissa reaches the bottom step, and I hold out a hand for her to take as she steps down onto the black-and-white marble flooring of the foyer. She gives me a sassy little smirk and does a slow spin, still holding on to my hand. "Do I pass inspection?"

I lean down and put my lips on hers. The kiss is just short enough with just enough tongue to drive me insane.

"You're beautiful. You ready for tonight?" She's been anxious about this gala.

She swipes at my lip with her thumb to remove whatever gloss or color I've stolen from her. "I think so. Maybe."

She gives a small but eloquent shrug. "Everyone is going to want to talk to me about Dad. And I want to do that. He meant a lot to a lot of people. But…."

"It might be too much," I finish for her.

"I still get emotional about losing him. I don't want to do that in public."

"Tell you what," I say, holding her hand and leading her to the waiting car. I wave Dean back to the front when he makes a move to come around to open her door. I do that myself, then help her arrange her skirts before climbing in beside her. "If you feel overwhelmed or just don't want to have a certain conversation, just"—I reach out and tweak her earring—"play with your earring. I'll run defense."

"Do you need me to run defense on anything for you?" she asks.

My first instinct is to say I don't need anything. It's my job to take care of her, not the other way around.

But she looks eager, maybe even hopeful. It matters to her. My heart does a weird roll in my chest at the realization.

I scramble to think of something she could do. I'm vividly aware of how easily I can hurt her feelings without even realizing I'm doing it. I've done it more than once.

I’ve heard people refer to me as a ruthless asshole—which is absolutely accurate. I’m not exactly known for being sensitive or empathetic. But for Clarissa, I try.

So I say, "Icoulduse your help with something. But it's more offense than defense."

"Interesting," she says.

"Franklin Barrett."

"Of the Boston Barretts?"

"Yes. I've been trying to nail him down for a meeting, but rumor has it he's offended on your behalf that you didn't inherit the Harcourt shares."

Clarissa laughs. "Oh, Frank. That's actually really sweet."

"The man's got daddy issues," I grumble.

"Many people do. I'll talk to Frank. Maybe when he realizes I'd rather swim naked in a giant vat of stinging jellyfish than deal with anything to do with Harcourt, he'll come around."

"It couldn't hurt." I squeeze her hand. "You also need to keep an eye out for Lyndsay Roker."

She purses her lips and gives me a narrow-eyed look. "What about her?"

Clarissa looks annoyed, which tells me everything I need to know. She's already heard about Lyndsay Roker and the woman's big mouth. It's a big city but a small world.

It’s no secret that people talk about us and our living arrangement. But Lyndsay is the most vocal and, arguably, the most venomous of the bunch.

I don’t want Clarissa anywhere near her. My wife makes a point of avoiding social media. The last thing she needs is to come into contact with a woman who’s built her entire personality around being as nasty as possible on the internet. “Just avoid her if you can.”

I wanted to have her banned from the entire event. But our public relations team felt it would be better to allow her to attend—she did, after all, make the $100,000 per plate donation—and simply give her nothing to work with in terms of our marriage. Refusing to allow her to attend would give her what she wants: more drama.

Clarissa’s face is the hardest I’ve ever seen it. “My poor, deserted husband. Did you know I wouldn’t even let you kiss me at our wedding?”

“She’s a bitch. Ignore her.”

“She wants you. That’s why she says the things she does about me.”

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