Page 107 of Hate You More

“What are the chances she’ll tell your dad?” I ask, pulling a piece of bracken from her shoulder.

“Urgh.” Clara rolls her eyes like the question doesn’t bother her one bit. “She will, but not tonight. Stepmommy Dearest never fails to use whatever ammunition she can gather.” She shoots me a quick smile. “Don’t worry. It’s not like we were doing anything. Anything she could see.”

“Shit, Clara.” So much for making a good impression.

“It’s fine. It’s me she likes to needle. You’ll be a footnote in her telltale story, if she mentions you at all.”

“I don’t like that any better,” I say, taking her hand in mine. “You and me, we’re in this together. When the shit hits the fan, you call me, you hear? I’ll take those lumps.”

“You.” That’s all she says as her eyes turn soft and she brushes her thumb against my chin. “You look really good,” she says. “Did I tell you that?”

I glance down at my suit and give a gruff chuckle. “You did, but only because you’re not looking too close.”

“I always pay attention to you,” she says with a considering tilt to her head. “I meant you look good here.”

She can’t know what that means to me, even if it’s not true to anyone but her. It’s tough being on the outside looking in, but it’s enough to know she sees the potential in me.

We begin to climb again when Clara stiffens ever so slightly. I feel it more than see it, her hand tightening on mine. I follow her line of sight to where her dad stands by the open French doors. One hand wrapped around a glass of scotch, watching us like he’s been waiting.

I don’t let go of her hand.

Edwin Forbes is tall, but not as tall as me. His clothes are expensive and his hair is dark like Clara’s, though silvering at the temples. His expression seems open, I guess. Friendly on the surface. Until you get to his eyes. Fuck, they are hard. I bet he’s never had to ask permission for one damn thing in his whole life.

“There you are,” he says as we approach. I say we, but he’s not looking at me.

“Sir,” I say.

He doesn’t return the courtesy, though his expression reacts like he just noticed someone took a shit on the carpet.

Beside me, Clara seems to brace. “Daddy,” she says sweetly, though she practically vibrates. “Good evening.”

“I wondered where you had disappeared to,” he says. “I see you found . . . company.”

Clara stiffens. I guess her assumption about the bony-ass bitch was wrong.

“We were in the garden,” she says quickly.

“Yes,” he says dryly. “That much is obvious.”

I feel the tension run straight through her hand into mine.

“I’m surprised,” he continues, now looking directly at me, “that you felt it appropriate to take my daughter down there.” He wants a reaction—he’s measuring me.

“Lightning bugs,” I answer evenly. I’m just the guy in love with your daughter over She practically dragged me down there. “The grounds see fewer pesticides down there.” The man knows I’ve worked in the gardens this year. “There’s also less light pollution away from the house. It makes them easier to spot.”

“Yes, I wanted to see them,” Clara puts in effusively. Her fingers curl tighter around mine. Good save, her hold seems to say. “It was magical.” She’s not wrong.

His mouth tightens. “You shouldn’t be wandering around in the dark with strangers.”

“Troy isn’t a stranger.” Her tone turns hard. “You know that. And I’m not a child.”

“Clara.” Even his gaze turns patronizing. “We both know you’ve struggled historically with judgment.”

She flinches, but this is about me, so I squeeze her hand this time. Just enough for her to feel it. It’s fine. I can handle him. I’m used to being underestimated. Fuck him.

“Sir.” His attention draws my way, and I hold his gaze. “With respect, your daughter is more than capable of making her own decisions. She’s smart and principled, and doesn’t need to be spoken to in that way.”

For a second the air goes still and he studies me. He’s not pissed. It’s more like I’ve said something mildly amusing.