Page 138 of Tenderfoot

My gaze lifted to him.

He was still in his trousers, no shirt, bare feet, disheveled hair, eyes burning gilded fire on my behalf, mug of coffee held in his strong hand, one of his long, attractive fingers hooked through the handle.

And I was in his tee, in his bed, no panties, my shampoo and conditioner in his shower, the moisturizer I’d just used sitting by the sink that had become mine in his bathroom.

I’d won this beautiful man. He was so into me, as beautiful as he was, he hadn’t slept with another woman since he met me months and months ago.

Since he’d met me.

I had friends who were the best friends a girl could have. I had a job that was zero stress. It didn’t allow me to jet off to Aspen for a weekend of skiing, and I had to save for things I wanted if they cost too much. But I didn’t bring my work home with me. It might get physically exhausting, but it was never mentally so.

And that was my choice.

Because I was an adult.

Sure, one day I might want to consider starting my own company where I organized people’s space, because I liked doing that and I was good at it.

Or I might be a server until I died, and who cared?

My life.

My choice.

And I was her daughter.

Truth, even if I, too, became a surgeon, or a researcher who found the cure to cancer, it wouldn’t matter.

Easton was her end all, be all. She treated him better than her own husband.

I was never going to win with her no matter what, and I knew that to the point I’d often wondered, in my darkest times, in the deepest entries I scribbled in my journal, why she’d even birthed me.

“I won’t be at Easton’s dinner,” I said, watching Javi’s face shift to surprise, before it lit with pride.

Yes.

This was hard.

But it was good.

(I thought.)

“Excuse me?” Mom asked.

I turned away from Javi to focus on Mom. “I won’t be joining you and Dad and Easton at Le Amé on Saturday.”

“Can I ask why not?”

“Because you don’t actually want me there.”

At that, I heard Javi set his coffee aside before he claimed me, pulling me in his arms.

That felt better.

“Why on earth would you think we don’t want you there?” Mom demanded.

“I don’t know, Mom, because you treat me like shit?” I asked, deciding cursing in this instance was okay, because it was apropos.

“Please, Harlow,” Mom said dismissively.

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