Page 47 of I Almost Do

"But he didn't. Because your father didn't think you were ready for that. And, frankly, I agree. You don't have any concept of how much anything costs. And you're a bleeding heart for every sob story you hear."

"So I’m a child. That's what you're saying. A child who needs Daddy to send her money every week."

"Aren't you?"

She snaps her head to look out the window, arms crossed defensively against her chest.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.Why am I saying this shit to her? I knew we'd fight over money eventually. I knew we would. It was inevitable.

I need to be kind. Sympathetic. Keep my fucking cool. I’m supposed to be de-escalating this scene, not fanning the flames.

But her accusations—her implications that I’ve been disloyal—they infuriate me.

No, that's not it. The truth is… it hurts to realize she has so little faith in me.

And I'm doing what I always do when something hurts. I burn shit down.

I take a breath and try to lower the tension between us. “Before tonight, I didn’t realize Rebecca was a problem. But she was patronizing as hell to you. And that’s unacceptable.”

“So you did notice that,” she says sarcastically.

Yes, but obviously far, far too late. The truth is I simply wasn't listening to Rebecca. She was unimportant.

“Lyndsay has video of the whole thing,” she says bitterly.

I pull out my phone and begin texting security.

“What are you doing?”

"I'm having Lyndsay and Rebecca escorted from the gala. And I'm firing Rebecca on Monday morning. You and I are the onlyteamthat ever matters."

Her eyes fly wide, and she swivels her head toward me. “You’d fire your executive assistant for me?”

Why is this even a question? “Yes, of course I would. I’d fire anyone you wanted me to.”

Her mouth pops open. “You can’t fire your assistant just because I hate her.”

“I can. And I will.”

Clarissa puts a hand on my arm to stop me. “Please don’t. And don't have them removed from the gala. It’ll just make things worse. It’s enough to know you would. Just… talk to your assistant about the way she represents the company in public. The things she said at our wedding reception… anyone could have heard her. And considering she works directly for you….” She trails off, then huffs. “Put a letter in her file or something.”

There’s a certain poetic justice in that. I’d rather fire her. But Clarissa is serious. She’s too damn forgiving.

I sigh and reach out to pull her into a hug. “I’m sorry for calling you a child. I don’t believe that. And it’s okay that you aren’t ready to manage your own trust, Clarissa. That’s hardly your fault. It doesn’t bother me to send you money. I’ll always make sure you have anything you need or want. I gave you those credit cards so you never have to feel like you need permission to buy anything you want.”

She stiffens in my hold and shoves away from me. So I let her go.

“You still don’t get it.”

I beat my head back against the black leather seat in one sharp, irritated motion. “Will you fucking stop?”

"I'm glad it doesn't bother you to send me a small part of my own money for popcorn and textbooks. It seems a small price to pay, considering you got a multibillion-dollar corporation and a hell of a lot of your own money out of marrying me," she says.

I'm hanging on to my temper by a thread. "I'm not for sale, Clarissa. Your father didn't buy me."

She braces her hands on the seat, leans in, inches from my face, and enunciates very clearly, "If the shares fit."

I’m breathing hard. The scent of her in my lungs. I’m distracted by her freckled satin skin. Her soft, plump lips. The adrenaline of anger is morphing into something far more dangerous. I’ve never been pissed off and turned on at the same time. I look from her eyes to her lips, then back again. "Fuck you."

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