“What’s he have?”
“Hodgkins. It worsens as he ages. He’s currently in remission, but not well.”
She frowns and nods. “But what’s his personality like?”
I shrug. “Domineering. Overbearing. He was a strict disciplinarian with me and my brothers. My sisters, not as much.”
She sighs. “Isn’t that funny. I think my own father was the opposite.”
Yes, Bryn. Our fathers are opposites in many ways.
“How so?”
She rolls her eyes. “He was ten times stricter with his daughters than his sons.”
Fucking bastard.
I reach for her hand and give her a squeeze. I try to make light of it.
“Don’t blame him,” I mutter. “If I had a daughter like you, I’d lock you up and never let you out of the house.”
She smiles. “That’s sweet.” She shakes her head. “But that isn’t the kind of strict he was.”
I wince. I shouldn’t feel sympathy for her, but goddamn, being the daughter of Banner Aitkens…
“Ah, he’s one of those.”
She sighs. “Yeah, one of those.”
“Do you get along?”
A shadow crosses her features for a moment. She shrugs. “Not really. But I don’t much care, either.”
“Guess we both have daddy issues.”
She snickers. “Aye.”
She’s indifferent to him, then. Does he care if something happens to her? He’d better. The whole crux of my plan is based on that. It isn't revenge at all if he doesn't care about her.
And maybe it's weak to admit, but a little part of me hopes that he doesn't care about her. Then I’d have an excuse to ditch my plan.
The way she fiddles with the hem of her dress makes me wonder if she’s scared of him. Of course she is. Anyone who knows Aitkens would be.
Jesus.
We’re only ten minutes away from the restaurant. She sits so close to me, her knee is just inches away from my hand. I let my hand fall to the side, closer to her leg, and gently brush one finger along her knee.
“You’re so soft,” I whisper. She shivers, and sidles a bit closer to me. Her legs part.Jesus.
“Thank you,” she says. “Though sadly, I train hard at the gym to avoid being soft, and it sounds like I’ve fuckedthatup.”
I chuckle and trace the outline of her knee with my finger while I take the road to the restaurant.
“I mean your skin,” I say softly. “Feels like silk.”
“Oh, does it?” she whispers back. “I think it’s especially soft by my…” she’s breathing rapidly, “inner thighs.”
I place my palm on her thigh and let my thumb casually slide to the warmth of her inner thigh.
