My dearisn’tgirl.My deardoesn’t make my heart beat too loudly in my ears.My deardoesn’t make me wet between my legs.
I can live withmy dear.
I’m not tamed yet—far from it. I hate the way his innuendo lights me on fire from within. I despise that I can’t cross the feckin’ street on my own.
But he’s won this round, and we both know it. I follow him across the street to the house where Nilsson and Anna live.
If it were anywhere else in the world—not in front of Wolf’s mammoth estate—this place would be described as a mansion. Brick. Two stories. Twelve windows facing the street. A private gate, this one with a gatehouse, with doors that open by lock and key.
Wolf waves me through in front of him. We follow the brick drive around the main building to a pretty cottage that looks like something out of a storybook. It’s made of gray stone, with a well-settled slate roof. Flower boxes line the windows. Pots of pansies frame the door.
Wolf produces another key, and I find myself in a sunny little room, a combination kitchenette and living room. To my right is a bedroom, the double bed made up with a pink-and-yellow calico comforter. To my left is a closed door.
“Granny?” I ask, my voice instinctively low.
“With her nurse, I presume.” He nods toward the close-off room.
I want to shove the door open, to make sure my grandmother is safe, that she’s comfortable. But if the door is closed, she’s probably sleeping. She looked so frail at yesterday’s wedding…
Reluctantly, I move farther into the living room. This is abeautiful space—even nicer than the third-floor room Wolf splashed out for at Three Oaks.
Uncomfortable at the thought of how much I owe Wolf, I search for something to say. Finally, I nod toward the framed print over the chintz couch. It shows a turquoise bridge arching across a pond filled with pink and white waterlilies. “Sister Mary Agnes had that poster on her wall at school.”
“This one isn’t a poster.”
“It’s real?” I can’t hide my shock.
“A Monet. Yes. I meant to show you the rest of my art collection last night, before you got…distracted.”
The speed of blood rushing to my cheeks makes me mean again. “Of course it’s a real Monet. Let me guess. You have a Picasso, too. A Renoir. A Matisse.” I spit out the names of the first painters I can think of.
“My Picasso’s in the living room. Renoir’s in the dining room. The Matisse is in the library.”
“Well if that’s all,” I drawl, trying to sound bored.
“That’s only the beginning. You saw the O’Keeffe in our bedroom last night.”
The O’Keeffe. That poppy with its lush petals, laid out like a map to all the aching places inside me.
Furious with myself for blushing all over again, I start to sputter an insult. “You think you’re such a big, big man, but really?—”
A throat clears behind me.
Wolf looks past my shoulder. “Ms. Sutton,” he says.
Gritting my teeth, I do my best to pretend I wasn’t about to mock Ms. Sutton’s boss and my supposed husband. I cross the room and shake the nurse’s hand, pleased by her firm grip.
She’s probably ten years older than I am, brown hair cut short in a practical bob. She wears dark green hospital scrubs, and a stethoscope curls around her neck. “Mr. Wolf,” she says. “Mrs. Wolf.”
I figure this isn’t a great time to insist on my maiden name. Instead, I ask, “How is Granny?”
“She’s fine. Quite tired after her travels yesterday, but that’s to be expected with post-polio syndrome. She seems a little confused, but I suspect that’s due to her fatigue.”
“Confused?” I pounce on the word as a flicker of nausea twists my gut.
“Nothing to worry about,” Ms. Sutton says with a crisp, professional smile. “She keeps talking about how lovely the wedding was, until the bride started showing off her tattoos.”
Wolf raises his eyebrows. Ms. Sutton chuckles softly. I just glare at the closed door. “I don’t want to wake her,” I say, but that’s a lie. I desperately want to see my grandmother, to confirm for myself that she’s managed the move well.
