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Aidan
CalvinWhittaker’sdaughteris not the girl I thought she’d be.
I was expecting a spoiled, petulant brat, the feminine version of her father at her age. But the girl who just left my office couldn’t be further from that description. Grace didn’t say much, but her sad eyes and gentle mannerisms spoke volumes.
This girl may be half Calvin, but she’s also half Evelyn, and one hundred percent her own.
Refocusing on work proves to be more difficult than it should. I catch myself replaying the exchange while staring at financial figures, recalling the feel of Grace’s soft, delicate hand in mine. Those fragile, birdlike bones, easily crushed. Having tested the pain thresholds of many women her size, I wouldn’t be shocked if her body harbored more power than her frame lets on.
Some time later, Jen returns to my office, yawning into the back of her hand.
“I’ve set Grace up in the theater room downstairs,” she says. “Netflix should keep her busy until dinnertime.”
“Theater room? I forgot I had one of those.”
“That’s not surprising, seeing as how you’ve also forgotten how to relax.”
My mouth tilts into a small smile. As far as I can tell, Jen is vaguely aware of how I spend my free time. She’s met more than a few of the submissives I play with, though I’ve never explicitly introduced them as such. It’s possible she’s referring to the fact that these rendezvous have become few and far between over the last year or so.
“I’m glad to hear the electronic babysitter’s earning its keep,” I say.
Jen scoffs. “Grace is hardly a baby. She’s quite smart for her age and very independent. She’s holding it together shockingly well. Poor girl. I can’t imagine what she must be feeling right now.”
I can more than imagine what she’s feeling. I was a year younger than Grace is now when I lost my mother to cancer. My stepfather—Calvin’s father—was a middling replacement for my own, who died when I was small. Being orphaned isn’t a subject I discuss often, when I discuss it at all. Jen knows this, and doesn’t push.
“I need you to set up a meeting with a potential investor at the Manhattan office for next week.” I open my email browser and fire off a quick message. “I’ve just sent along their contact info.”
“Got it.” Jen taps at her phone and yawns again. “If it’s all right with you, I’ll take tea in my room. The drive up took a lot out of me.”
“Fine by me.” I’ve asked her to stay at the house for a couple of nights, just until Grace feels more comfortable. “Thank you for braving the weather to bring her here.”
“Of course. I’ll check in on our girl once more before I call it a night. Do you think you can keep her alive in my absence?”
“I’ll do my best.”
Jen takes her leave. I finish a few more tasks and then change into a casual sweater before heading downstairs. Grace is already in the dining room when I get there. I’m used to taking my meals alone, so it’s a mild shock when I see her at the table, a splash of gold against the mahogany. She gifts me a small, amiable smile, and it hits me how much I’ve been looking forward to sitting down with her again.
“Are you finding your way around?” I ask, taking my place at the head of the table, to the right of her chair.
“I am,” she says. “I’ve only gotten lost once, but I found my way back. Your house is beautiful. Though, now that I’ve said it out loud, the word beautiful doesn’t feel grand enough to describe it.”
“Jen will be glad to know you appreciate her tastes,” I say. “I put her in charge of the decorating.”
Paolo emerges from the kitchen with bowls of lobster bisque, which he sets before us with flourish. Grace thanks him with a wide smile, and I catch a hint of color creeping into the old man’s cheeks.
“How long have you lived here?” Grace asks, before lifting a spoonful of bisque to her lips. Her eyes drift closed as she hums with pleasure.
“You like it?”
She nods. “It’s delicious.”
“Wait ‘til you taste his desserts,” I say. “To answer your question, I bought this house around...ten years ago now. I wanted a place close enough to my office in the city, but far enough that I could still enjoy the solitude.”
“I still can’t believe you’ve lived an hour away from my school for ten years, and this is my first time meeting you.”
I let the creamy bisque coat my tongue and slide down my throat before telling her, “Technically, you and I have met once before.”
“We have?” She cocks her head, curious.
