Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 57270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
“How do you feel about early birthdays then?”
I think for a moment. Sitting cuddled against Mr. Blomqvist without any underwear on, well that’s different. “Early birthdays? I think I might be all right with those.”
He kisses my throat. “Good. Open it, käraste.”
I take a closer look at the carry bag and the word that’s printed on the side, and change my mind again. “Versace? I can’t, it’s—”
“Open it,” he insists softly, still smiling.
Inside I find a white leather handbag, made to perfection and very chic. Stupidly expensive, though. If he wanted to buy me something, it should have been something inconsequential and small, because this is making a much bigger deal out of my birthday than I’d wanted to. “It’s beautiful, but I can’t accept something so—”
He turns the bag around and points at the clasp. It’s large and silver and is shaped like Medusa’s head. I’d forgotten that Medusa was the Versace logo.
“I thought she might make you feel powerful.”
My face crumples, and I cover my eyes with my hand. He remembered what I said about Medusa, and that I like to wear symbols of protection. I think with all his tattoos he must understand that they’re more than just symbols. They’re my strength and meaning when I need them.
“I’m sorry,” I say through my tears, because making me cry was probably the last thing he wanted to do.
“Hey. Käraste. Did I do something wrong?”
I shake my head, trying to speak past the lump in my throat, but failing. He did the very opposite of wrong.
“Are you going to say thank you, daddy, and accept your birthday present like a good girl?”
I nod, and he wraps his arms around me and pulls me against him. A few minutes later I’m able to whisper. “Thank you, daddy.”
“You’re very welcome.”
I study him. “Why do you like doing this for me so much? Not the birthday present. All of it. I have a lot of baggage. You must have figured that out by now, but nothing I do or say seems to scare you off.”
“Scared of you? I’m the control freak. Shouldn’t you be scared of me?”
“You’re not a freak. You’re actually really lovely. Why are you looking at me like that?”
He’s wearing a smile that’s so peaceful and beatific it almost doesn’t seem real. That a person can feel that way. That he can be looking at me that way, as if there’s no place in the world that he’d rather be than here.
“No reason, käraste. You’re just sweet, that’s all. Happy birthday.”
“Daddy,” I whisper, my heart fluttering in my chest. I take a deep breath. “Did you want to maybe, um. Sleep together?”
His vivid blue gaze holds mine. “There’s no hurry, käraste.”
But there is a hurry. I won’t be here forever, and it’s not like we can see each other out in the real world. Our entanglement or whatever this is exists only in his office, and we have just a few weeks left together. It might be weird, having sex in an office and not a bedroom, but I don’t care. He’ll be there, and that’s what matters.
I open my mouth to remind him that time is short, but he points out that it’s seven and sits up.
“Can I have my underwear, please?”
Mr. Blomqvist rubs a hand over his jaw. “Mm. No.”
“Excuse me?”
He grins, and this time he doesn’t look beatific at all. He looks devilish, and pulls my underwear out of his pocket and dangles them on a forefinger before my face. “These are mine. I want you to remember your lesson all the way home.”
I want to snatch them from him, but I can see him daring me to with his eyes. Instead, I smooth my skirt down demurely and stand up. “Yes, daddy.”
He grins even wider and pushes my panties back into his pocket. “Such a good girl.”
The very breezy journey home has me clinging to my hem every time there’s a gust of wind. When I walk in the front door an hour later, my parents spy the Versace carrier bag straight away. I’m suddenly doubly conscious that I’m naked beneath my skirt. Knowing I’m probably blushing red to the roots of my hair, I say, “It’s a present from Mr. Blomqvist. To say thank you for all the work on the exhibition, I guess.”
Dad accepts this blithely, as if it’s no surprise that a daughter of his is so useful to Mr. Blomqvist. My mother looks like she wants to say more, such as, Employers don’t buy young women Versace handbags for platonic reasons. What’s really going on here? How old is he? What’s his agenda? But she holds her tongue. Probably she’ll ask dad a load of questions about Mr. Blomqvist later when I’m not in the room, because I don’t think she’s ever met him.