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“What’s wrong with being a woman, Papa?”
You sure acted like a pussy the day you gave me to Wolfe Keaton.
“We play different roles,” he clipped.
“And mine is to make babies and look pretty?”
“Yours is to continue the legacy of your family and leave the hardworking jobs to people who need them.”
“This sounds a lot like you don’t respect me as an equal,” I hissed, holding the phone between my ear and shoulder and stabbing the trowel in the mud and wiping my forehead simultaneously.
“That’s because you’re not my equal, my dear Frankie.”
The line went dead on the other side.
I planted twenty pots of flowers that day.
Then went to my room, took a shower, and started filling out my application to Northwestern. Political Science and Legal Studies, I decided, would be my major.
In all fairness, I always thought gardening was my calling, but since my father infuriated me to no end, sticking my major in his face was worth going through years and years of studying something I doubted would interest me much.
I was Petty McPetson, but I was gaining an education, and it felt good.
I hunched over my oak desk when something in the air changed. I didn’t have to lift my head to know what it was.
My fiancé was here to check on his prisoner bride.
“You have your first dress fitting tomorrow. Go to bed.”
From my peripheral, I could see he was not wearing a suit. A white V-neck shirt that highlighted his tan, lean but muscled body and dark denim that clung low on his narrow hips.
He looked nothing like a senator, acted nothing like a politician, and the fact I couldn’t box him this way or the other unsettled me.
“I’m filling out my application to Northwestern,” I replied, feeling heat coating my face and neck again.
Why did it feel like he dipped me in liquid fire every time his eyes were on me? And how could I make it stop?
“You’re wasting your time.”
My head snapped up, and I granted him the eye contact he’d been looking for.
“You promised,” I growled.
“And I shall deliver.” He pushed off my doorframe and stepped into my room, sauntering toward me. “You don’t need to fill out an application. My people have already taken care of that. You’re about to become a Keaton.”
“Are Keatons too precious to fill out their own college applications?” I could barely keep myself from snapping at him.
He plucked the documents from my desk, balled and slam-dunked them in the trash can by my desk. “It means you could’ve drawn dicks in all shapes and sizes on the document, and you’d still get in.”
I shot up from my chair, putting some much-needed distance between us. I couldn’t risk another kiss. My lips still stung every time I thought of his rejection.
“How dare you!” I thundered.
“You seem to be asking this question a lot. Care to change your tune a little?” He shoved one hand into the front pocket of his jeans and picked up my cell phone on my desk, scrolling through it with his thumb with easy monotony.
My parents forbade me from having a passcode. When my mom gave me back my phone, protecting my privacy was low on my to-do list, seeing as the majority of it had already been taken anyway.
“What are you doing?” My voice turned eerily calm and shocked at the same time.
