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“Why? What are you going to do if I do?”
I know I'm practically daring him to bend me over his desk, spank my ass, and teach me a lesson I won’t forget—and right now, whether that makes sense to anyone else or not, to me, there would be no better therapy.
“Tomorrow you’ll dress modestly.”
“Oh, will I, now?”
He takes a step towards me, narrowing the gap to three or so feet. “Yes. You will.”
What are you so afraid of, Grey?
As the thought crosses my mind, another replaces it, one which makes me wilt a little.
“Who was that man?”
A shadow crawls beneath his vibrant gray eyes, which, in the bright light of the sun through the large windows, I now see are flecked with shards of dark blue.
He blinks slowly. “What man?”
“You know the one. The one who makes Voldemort look like a cheerleader and looks like he’s just feasted on human flesh.”
He glances down, his eyes finding my waist. “His name is Landon Everitt. He’s the owner of this company.”
“Everitt?”
“Yes,” he replies soberly. “He’s my father.”
For some reason, a frigid wind billows through my body, easing strength from my limbs. Maybe it’s the fact that all light seemed to extinguish from Grey’s face the second I evoked him, as if a candle had been snuffed out leaving nothing but a trail of smoke.
I decide not to probe…much.
“He seems a bit…”
Of an asshole…
“Disagreeable.”
“He is,” he replies coarsely. “Which is another reason I don’t want you walking around here dressed like that. In fact, I don't want you talking to him at all.”
It would sound strange if I didn’t have my own hellscape of a relationship with my mother, one so challenged in the maternal instincts department that her almost-daily mantra to my childhood was, “I wish I’d never had you.”
I don’t know what exactly is going on between Grey and his father—maybe it’s all good and the guy is just moody, but I can’t help wanting to know more… and to tell him I get it.
Not everyone does when it comes to parents who hurt you.
“What, is he dangerous or something?” I ask.
His body stiffens. “You’re going to stay away from him.”
“And what if I bump into him?”
“I’m going to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“Is that why you have Donna appear every time I leave the room?”
“One of several reasons,” he replies possessively. “It’s also the reason I’ll be driving you home tonight—that and your outfit. I’m not having you walk the streets of DC at happy hour dressed like that. Which brings me to my next point… about your attitude.”
My jaw tightens. “What about it, exactly?”
