Page 17 of Mercy (The Sins Trilogy 3)
Not even the bedsheets seemed to have changed in the nearly two weeks I’ve been gone. They’re too rumpled, which isn’t like Tony at all. He prefers them changed three times a week, minimum, and the housekeeper always puts out freshly laundered ones on Friday because she doesn’t come back until Monday.
He notes the direction of my gaze. “I’ll change them now.”
“Why didn’t you before?”
“I just…couldn’t.”
“What happened? Did Mrs. Wilson quit?”
He glances away. “The sheets smelled like you, so I hung on to them. That’s all I had of you while you were gone.”
The openness of his confession strikes a chord deep within me. And I’m so sorry that I never took the threat to my life as seriously as Tony did…or that I never considered for a moment how terrifying the possibility of my untimely death could be for him.
He’d made his way into my heart and put an unremovable anchor there, even before we met at Hammers and Strings, which explains my tears at the store when I saw him. He wouldn’t have been able to do that if he were just another manipulative jerk like Sam. I wouldn’t have let him, nine years ago or now.
“I’m here now,” I say. “Let’s do this together.”
It doesn’t take that long to put my things away. I had lots of practice in the six years or so when I was traveling around. Once that’s finished, I help Tony change the sheets. It’s a good thing, too. Despite his general brilliance, he isn’t very good at domestic chores. Surprising and oddly adorable.
“This is supposed to be easy,” he mutters, scowling at the poor silky-smooth cotton sheets like somehow it’s their fault he isn’t succeeding.
I can’t help smiling. “You’ve never done this, have you?”
“No. I usually have someone else do it.”
“Like your mom.”
The second I say it, I freeze, wishing I could take it back. Crap. He didn’t have the kind of normal childhood most people have. He said I was brought to his parents while he was in Europe. He couldn’t have been more than eleven or twelve back then. And given the huge difference between the way Margot treats him and Harry, I doubt she was any nicer to him back then.
“Tony, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
He smiles, even though it doesn’t quite reach his dark emerald eyes. “She never did it either, even when I was a toddler. We had live-in housekeepers and a butler for that sort of thing.”
“Oh.”
I knew his family was old money, but the idea of having live-in help—and a butler—seems about as real as CGI. It’s especially so because I don’t remember having grown up with them. Sam only had a butler, and I honestly have no idea what the man did except answer the door. I doubt Tony’s family’s butler is as ridiculous as Sam’s, who I suspect was hired to satisfy my uncle’s ego more than any ability to do the job well.
“Is that the kind of thing you want?” I ask.
It isn’t something we ever talked about, despite being engaged. I put it off, thinking that the details of our lives could be worked out later. It felt awkward to talk about how much help we should have and so on when he’s the one who’s going to pay for everything. And I’m uncomfortable with having someone around all the time. I always took care of my own needs when I was traveling. And in general I hate people hovering over me, like if they don’t coddle me, I’m going to break or something.
“I want what you want.”
But does he? I haven’t even told him what I want, so how can he be so sure? I straighten when the bed’s perfectly made. “That’s not a real answer.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t you have your own personal preference? You can tell me.”
It isn’t like him to be shy about sharing how he wants something done. Just then, my mind brings up the cold image of Margot Blackwood. Did she teach Tony to defer when he needs to appease someone who’s upset with him? Did seeing her remind him of that? My hackles rise. She’s so toxic.
“It doesn’t matter to me one way or the other. I’m always busy at work, and Wei takes care of things when I’m in the office. But you might want to have somebody here all the time, cooking, cleaning and whatever else you want done. That’s okay with me. It is about making you feel comfortable. This is your home, Ivy.”
Home.
It’s not a startling concept. It’s just that I don’t remember having a place that I considered my home. Hospitals. Hotels. Sam’s mansion. Byron’s penthouse. Julie’s apartment. Everything belonging to somebody else, and me just a transient guest.
So maybe that’s why I never really let myself believe the place Tony and I share is my home. He bought it to suit his taste, furnished it in his way. But all that was before he met me. Now he’s saying this place can change to suit me, too.
