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“Why? Why couldn’t I have taken it further, Merrick?” I said softly.
He hesitated.
“You’ve always told me I could do what I wanted with my body. You gave me access to any birth control I wanted. You told me that there was nothing wrong with sex as long as it was consensual,” I spat. “So why did I embarrass you by flirting in a hot tub?”
His cobalt eyes burned, rimmed with those black lashes.
“Because you’re not like other people,” he said. “Because you’re the Welsh Princess.”
“Oh,” I said, laughing shortly. “This isn’t about me. This is about you and how you fucking look to all your little subjects.”
“No, this is about you not living up to your potential. Not realizing your worth.”
“You sound like a tool, Merrick,” I snapped.
“Clara, that’s beneath you,” he snapped right back. “I’m not trying to sound like your father, but—”
“Then don’t,” I shouted, bringing my palm down on the table. “Don’t talk to me like you’re my father because you aren’t. He’s dead, Merrick, he’s fucking dead and I’m better off for it. I don’t need you turning into him.”
I wasn’t sure why I said it. Perhaps because it was such a relief to admit it in such straightforward terms. My father was an ice cold, patriarchal tyrant and I’d hated living under his thumb. I didn’t regret speaking the words aloud, but I did regret the look that passed over Merrick’s face.
I’d forgotten my father was his closest friend.
Ashamed, I took a sharp breath. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
“I know you meant it.”
“Still…I never meant to hurt you that much.”
He ran a hand over his face, rubbing his stubble. “You have every right to feel whatever way you do about your father. I have good memories of him, you don’t. Our feelings are both legitimate.”
I sank back onto the stool. “Why are you so reasonable? It’s annoying,” I whispered.
“Intensive practice.”
The silence in the kitchen was deafening. He finally released a sigh and began making a pour-over. He poured my favorite creamer into the steaming cup and put it in front of me.
“Drink,” he said. “You’re going to hate yourself tomorrow.”
I obeyed, already feeling a little better.
“I’m not withdrawing my request,” he said.
“What?”
“Any drinking that isn’t a glass of wine while out to dinner will be limited to the weekends.”
“Two days a week? That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Three maybe? Friday, Saturday, Sunday?”
“Two days only.”
I huffed into my coffee, rolling my eyes. He remained unswayed. I glared at him subtly as he pushed his sleeves up further and began loading the dishwasher. He was precise in everything he did, setting every dish in its proper place.
He wiped down the counter, not missing a single spot.
