“Okay, but I can guarantee you, her reason for attempting to try is based on the connection she feels toward her mom, and toward you.”
“I’ll do my best. You know I wish this was different. You know I wish I could be there.”
“I know,” I say softly. “But I think you should at least try to talk to her.”
“We’ll try to make that happen. I’m just... I don’t want her to see me sick like this. I don’t want that to make her decision for her.”
“I understand,” I say as I stare at my reflection in the mirror.
“I have faith in you, Keller, my son.”
I squeeze my eyes shut as a bout of emotion wreaks havoc on my mind. “Thank you. I’ll keep you updated.”
We say our goodbyes, then I hang up the phone and set it on the ledge of the sink before gripping the porcelain and leaning forward. The weight of the world rests on my shoulders. The future of the country. Lilly’s trust...it all rests in the palm of my hand.
And what terrifies me the most... is crushing Lilly’s trust.
I felt the way she looked at me last night, the way her eyes ate me up. I’d have to have turned a blind eye to not see it, and I’ll be damned if it didn’t have a damned machismo effect on me.
Fuck, it made me feel like a goddamn man.
The hitch of her breath. The licking of her lips. The inability not to stare. She was unashamed of her perusal, and even though I told her not to look at me like that, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it.
Because I did.
I liked it way more than I should have.
And I need to lock those feelings up, right now.
* * *
Day one of training,here we fucking go.
Deep breaths.
She’s already been annoying this morning by pestering me about why I brush my hair with my left hand instead of my right, but no big deal.
And at breakfast, she burped louder than a sailor, rattling the table we were sitting at—still, no big deal.
And right before we came into the room to start training, she told me a story about a guy who once painted her breasts in front of a live audience, once again, still not a big deal—just hoping to God Himself that there’s no photographic evidence.
“Why does this feel like an interrogation room?” Lilly asks as she shifts on her chair. “And why is there nothing else in this room, but it has the most windows? What the hell is this?”
“It was an art room.”
“Ah, that makes sense.” She gestures to the windows. “All the bright light. I can see how this would appeal to someone with a paintbrush.” She presses her hands to her thighs and looks up at me. “Okay, so this is kind of weird. Are you going to interrogate me? I feel like I’m in trouble. Am I in trouble?”
“No, but this is where we’ll be doing your training.”
“Ah...” She glances around. “Cozy.” Her sarcasm hangs heavy in the air. “Wouldn’t hurt to have more than a chair.”
“I don’t want to be distracted.”
“I see.” She slowly nods. “So, an area rug would distract you?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Why did I think the first day would be a breeze? I want to do a good job, I want to teach Lilly everything she needs to know, but she also knows how to grate on my nerves—and quickly—especially when I feel stressed.
And I’m stressed to the max right now.
