For Her Own Good

by Parker, Tamsen

  “Really, you’re making me nervous. I’ll get you some clothes and show you to the bath, you’re going to take a hot shower before you get dressed.”

  I’ll have to find some clothes that won’t fall straight off her—Christ—but I’ve got to have some clean sweats that will do the trick…

  “Not a bubble bath?”

  That nearly knocks me on my arse—the image of Starla in a tub full of iridescent bubbles, soaking and splashing and giggling like she hasn’t got a care in the world. I can’t even see her naughty bits in the picture and yet it still gets me short of breath and there’s heat creeping up my neck. I’ve showed her down the hall to the bathroom and she’s followed me inside.

  When I turn round to face her, I notice something I hadn’t before because I’d been so zeroed in on her being soaked to the skin. She’s a bit flushed and she’s got that slightly blurry look to her that says she’s probably been at a pub. Ah, fuck’s sake.

  “I don’t have any bubbles for ye, lass.”

  She laughs as I let my speech take on an even heavier burr. I like to please her, make her laugh, and she won’t feel as guilty about enjoying it if she’s buzzed.

  “That’s too bad. Although I didn’t really come here for a bath.”

  “No?” I’ve got to dig out a spare towel from the linen closet so I turn my back on her. Coming up with one that’s not exactly fit for guests but it will have to do, I face her again as she’s stripping off her soggy sweater, dragging it over her head, and leaving an expanse of her midsection uncovered.

  She’s… I… Yes, I’ve seen her naked before. In a towel, recently. And I’ve certainly seen other naked women in the not-so-distant past—what counts as distant, anyhow?—but that plane of smooth skin, and the way her breasts are displayed in the bra she’s still got on, I…

  How can a man be expected to think under these conditions? It’s not right. So I thrust the towel in her general direction and turn on my heel to head out the door, muttering something about dry clothes.

  * * *

  Starla

  Perhaps this was, as Holden said it would be, the worst, worst idea. Yes, I’m naked and wet in Lowry’s apartment, but this isn’t how I saw this going. At all. I suppose I could have foreseen he’d think of me showing up soaking wet on his doorstep as a problem to be solved and not a romantic gesture—why does it always seem romantic in the movies?—but then… He never did ask what I was doing here if it wasn’t for a bath. Isn’t he curious? I’d be curious if our positions were reversed, that’s for damn sure.

  If nothing else, I’m in Lowry’s home, which is so bland compared to the man himself. He’s renting though, and hit the ground running when he moved back by getting back to work straightaway. Probably hanging up some pictures or buying a vase or whatever wouldn’t have been high on his list of things to do.

  I’m also in his shower. Like a lot of men, his toiletry selection is rather sparse. But I didn’t come here for a spa visit. I didn’t come here for a shower either, but here we are. His shampoo and his soap smell like him, and I possibly take longer than absolutely necessary soaping myself up and inhaling the concentrated scent of Lowry.

  It would be weird—like real weird—to stay in here for too much longer, so I rinse everything off and step outside, feet sinking into his soft, fuzzy bathmat. It’s not pretty or sophisticated, but it’s comfortable and I like it. The towel he shoved at me before running away is—

  Oh my god, what if he has someone here? What if she’s in his bedroom and they were…canoodling or something? This is why Holden said it would be worst, worst. Except, Lowry would’ve said, right? He wouldn’t want me to be embarrassed if there were someone else here. He still would have scolded me and made me get out of my soaking wet clothes, but he would have told me. I’m certain of it.

  Past that jolt of panic, I towel off, eyeing my bruises in the mirror. They’re still there and ugly as ever since they’ve passed the deep purple pretty stage and are yellowing now. Nothing says sexy like mottled swamp skin. At least they don’t hurt so badly anymore.

  And then I’m in a towel with stringy wet hair and no blow-dryer in sight, nor any clothes. There’s not a robe hanging on the back of the door either, which means when Lowry showers, he’s wandering about his apartment in a towel. Except I suppose he’s mostly showering at the gym at work thanks to my brilliant idea, which he mentions every time he sees me. How well it’s working. How much his life has improved, and his performance as a clinician. It’s maybe overkill for him to mention it every single time, but I like it when he says nice things.

  It should go without saying—that whole “you catch more flies with honey than vinegar” thing is a saying for a reason—but people get better outcomes from me when they’re nice than when they’re not.

  Tad stopped being nice to me some time ago, but he’s recently gotten outright nasty. Tonight’s phone call was a fine example.

  “Your father would be so disappointed in you.”

  My eyes had burned and my sinuses tingled, and I’m angry they’re doing it again now, a couple of hours later.

  “You’re driving this corporation into the ground.”

  Which isn’t even true. Yes, the stock had tanked upon my father’s death, and dipped lower still when it was announced that I was inheriting all of his shares and would hod a controlling interest. That’s not exactly a vote of confidence. But since then, it’s been steadily climbing. Not back up to where it was prior to my father’s death, but people’s confidence that I’m not going to set the place on fire or anything has gone up. I may be making extremely conservative decisions, but they aren’t bad.

  “Everyone on the board was concerned when you started and I tried to allay their fears, but you’ve been worse than they’d imagined. How am I supposed to pull your ass out of the fire now, huh?”

  I’d wanted to punch him, wanted to yell and argue, but…what if he’s right?

  What if heaven is real and my father is looking down on me and thinking: “What the ever-loving fuck have I done?”

  I made my father’s life hard enough, now I’m making his afterlife a misery too? I know, I know, that Tad was doing it on purpose, poking at a spot he knows is vulnerable, but that’s because it fucking works. I can tell myself all I like that there’s no such thing as heaven or that I’m not doing a terrible job, or that Tad is so fucking toxic not even a rancor would eat his corpse, but jeez.

  It’s possible I downed another one of those tiny prosecco bottles Holden had brought over after I hung up with Tad because I’ve developed coping mechanisms for a lot of things, but someone using my recently deceased father’s approval or lack thereof against me is a new one, and I haven’t had time to develop a scab over the wound yet. Not even a temporary bandage. Nope, just a gaping wound that Tad can pour salt and citrus juice in like my psychic trauma is a goddamn margarita.

  A knock on the door pulls me out of my ruminating.

  “Starla? Are you finished? I’ve got you some dry clothes.”

  I swipe at my eyes because I don’t want Lowry to ask what’s with the tears. Because he will. I don’t want to talk about that. I want to talk about my feelings for him because… What else do I have to lose? I don’t want to keep playing friends if I’m some sort of extracurricular pity case for him. I can fucking well pay for my mental healthcare, thankyouverymuch.

  And for fuck’s sake, what would I do if he meets someone and wants us all to be friends? That would be too much to bear. I don’t even like thinking all that much about Maeve and she’s his ex-wife. Which isn’t fair and I should be a grown-up. She does seem cool. Does a lot of charity work in Chicago, including for immigrant kids. I should like her, and I probably would, if I wasn’t jealous that she got to share Lowry’s bed, his life, and I haven’t.

  “Star?”

  Shit.

  I plaster a smile on my face when I open the door. Lowry’s standing there, a pile of navy blue, grey, and crimson in his hands.
/>   “I didn’t know what you’d like best, so…”

  He holds them toward me without totally looking at me. Right, I am wearing a towel. And that’s probably awkward for him. But the question is, why is it awkward? Is it awkward because he does want me or because he doesn’t? If it’s the former, we’re in business because I want him and we’re both consenting adults and yes, I get that for quite some time he was in a position of power and significant influence over me, but he’s not anymore. I’m the one with a shit ton of money, I’m the one who said I didn’t want to see him, and he respected that. I’ve got a pretty good bullshit meter and Lowry doesn’t register. The man is earnest to a fault.

  Also, it’s been fifteen goddamn years. Yes, he’s got some street cred with me because of our time together before, but… I am a grown-ass, adult woman. Give me some fucking credit. Trying to take that away from me by saying I can’t possibly make a real decision is some paternalistic trash that can jump in a dumpster fire. It’s…possible I have some feelings about this.

  If this is awkward because he doesn’t want me, then this is all going to go according to plan. I’ll come on to him, he’ll be mortified and explain nicely that I am an attractive woman, just not one he personally finds attractive and then I can go back to my apartment and medicate my mortification with some more prosecco. And a bubble bath. And calling Holden to make him come eat tuna salad out of a bowl with Doritos. It tastes better than you might think. But only the Nacho Cheese ones. Not that Cool Ranch nonsense.

  I take the pile from him, but not fully receiving them until he looks me in the eye. Like he’d be able to tell if he let go, they would fall. Look at me, Lowry.

  “Thank you.”

  And then I step back and shut the door in his face. There. Enough for now. I need a minute to, I don’t know… I need one of those boxing coaches who would rub my shoulders and get me all psyched up and shoot me up with painkillers because let me tell you, this prosecco is some weak-ass sauce. I can barely tell I drank any at all. But that’s for the best. If I were obviously sloshed, Lowry would pat me on the head and probably try to distract me with an animated movie, and let’s be real, that would probably work, especially if he let me sit next to him on the couch. And like doubly work for me to pass out if he cuddled me or petted my head. I’m so fucking easy.

  Chapter 13

  Lowry

  When Starla emerges from the bathroom, she looks more bonnie than any woman wearing mismatched, oversized sweats has a right to.

  “Thanks for these, they’re, um, warm.” She shrugs and looks even more darling, if that’s humanly possible.

  “You’re not going to win any fashion contests, but, uh, aye. I’m glad you’re warm.”

  I swear to God I have a decent vocabulary that I often make good use of.

  “Not going to catch my death now.”

  I shake my head because I’m too far gone to say anything. No, she’s safe from that mysterious chill my gran was always so worried about, but my heart might stop. It feels painfully right to have Starla in my home, freshly showered and wearing my clothes. Perhaps not the pants because they look somewhat ridiculous, but maybe if she wore some of those leggings women all seem to wear now, and the grey Hopkins sweatshirt I’ve had for…well, a long enough time, that she’s currently swimming in.

  No, I can’t think about that at all. What I ought to do though is ask her why she’s here. I never did find out because I was too busy getting her undressed. Way to be a professional, Campbell.

  “No, you aren’t. And now that that’s taken care of, did you want to tell me what you came here for?”

  I have to stop myself from saying more like, “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad to see you, but…” Because I am all but encouraging her to drop by whenever, so we can… I don’t even know, but it’s not a good idea.

  Her face is flushed which is a good reminder that she’s been drinking and whatever she says needs to be taken with a grain—nay, a boulder—of salt.

  “I came here…”

  She takes a few steps forward and I take a few back, landing myself against a wall because apparently all of my spatial abilities desert me in the face of a woman I’m very likely in love with. At least I don’t have any knickknacks to knock over.

  I’m not afraid of her, not at all. I am afraid of myself, afraid of what I might do, afraid I won’t be able to marshal my control and keep my hands to myself, because this isn’t right. People say things like “The heart wants what it wants,” which of course it does. But that doesn’t mean the body and the brain have to go out and get it.

  Self-control, decency. These are things I’ve prided myself on my entire life. Doing the right goddamn thing—hence the title Saint Lowry—and for fuck’s sake, I took a vow to do no harm. I should’ve switched seats on that plane. I should have never called to refer Lois to her, could’ve had Lois do it herself. I should have listened when Starla told me she never wanted to see or speak to me again. Christ, I’m a sorry excuse for a human.

  The way Starla is looking at me now though says she doesn’t think so. A few more steps and then she’s standing directly in front of me. When we’ve both got bare feet, she’s small enough that I could tuck her under my chin if I held her to me, and the idea makes me want to weep. I am a weak man and she deserves a strong one. One who is not so fundamentally flawed and haunted. But because I’m weak, I don’t stop her. Don’t tell her to go.

  I allow her to take another step forward and Lord in heaven above, I stop breathing when she lays her palms flat against my chest and looks up at me.

  “I came here to tell you that I like you, Lowry. Not as a friend. Not as my former doctor. But as a man. You’re thoughtful and intelligent and handsome and funny, and I…I like you very much. It’s, um, really hard for me to say this out loud and to be so earnest, because you know that’s not really a thing I do, but I’m saying it now because I wanted you to know, and I’m hoping you like me back. Not as a friend. Not as your former patient. But…as a woman. Who you might like to kiss. I’m, like, right here, so if you did…want to, that is, now would be a good time. Just saying.”

  Goddammit. Goddammit all to hell. I’ve done a lot of difficult things in my life. My career requires me to do difficult things nearly every day and usually far more often than that. Everything I’ve ever wanted for over fifteen years is standing in front of me, hand literally over my heart and telling me she wants me too, her eyes round and bright as she offers herself to me. God-fucking-dammit.

  Having to peel Starla Patrick’s small hands off my chest when I would like nothing better than to heft her up, instruct her to wrap her legs around my waist while I rutted into her with her back against the opposite wall, is among the most personally difficult things I’ve ever had to do. Nevertheless, I do, slipping thumbs under her fingers and breaking what seems to be a seal between her hands and the thin fabric of my shirt. So thin I could feel the warmth of her hands pressing against me, and Christ—I feel as though I am stripping away a level of my soul as I pry her hands from my body and guide them back toward her.

  Hell, asking Maeve for a divorce was easier than this. Likely because Starla looks a thousand times more devastated than Maeve did. Chin wrinkled on the verge of trembling, a crease formed between her brows, tears brimming on her lower lashes. It crushes my soul to think I’ve hurt her that much. But I can’t—cannot—ever have an atom of doubt in my mind that any feelings Starla might have for me are fake. That they were fueled by alcohol. It needs to be her choice. Her stone-cold sober choice.

  “I’m flattered. Very, very flattered. But…you’ve had a drink or maybe more. I can’t—”

  “I’m not drunk. That’s not why I’m here. It’s not liquid courage. I know how I feel.”

  She’s angry now, so mad she might stomp a foot. While I might deserve her heel coming down on my toes, the grinding of bone against hardwood, perhaps the snap of one of those devilishly small bones you can’t really do much for, it would l
ikely also ping that delighted part of my brain that likes to see her let go of how she thinks she ought to act and give in to her feelings, her impulses, reckless as they may be.

  “Be that as it may, I would never forgive myself if you woke up in the morning and felt like you’d done something you’d regret. So, for my sake, please. We can’t do this right now.”

  Her face has gotten that dusky coral color that passes for blush on her olive-toned skin and instead of about to cry, she looks like she might physically assault me. Wouldn’t blame her for that a bit. Her eyes flash dangerously and fury twists her sweet features.

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Either one.”

  And just as fast, she looks as though she might cry again, and it breaks my heart. It would be so simple to take her in my arms, kiss her hard, explore her flesh with my hands, carry her to bed and have my way with her there. Simple, but not easy, and I can’t do it, no matter how much I’d like to.

  Hands on her hips now, she cocks her head. “Are you going to send me home?”

  Och, am I? I hate the idea of her being alone in a car or on public transit having had something to drink. It’d make her a target, and I’d never forgive myself if something happened to her.

  “No. But you’re going to bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  That scowl is masterful. “That’s ridiculous. I’m not kicking you out of your own bed.”

  “You’re not. It’s my choice.”

  “And what if I say I’ll sleep on the floor if you sleep on the couch?”

  Her arms are crossed, stubborn as can be, and it makes me feel as though my cerebrospinal fluid is sloshing about in my skull. What an infuriating woman. I’d like to threaten to pick her up and deposit her in said bed, but if I do that…if I do that, then all my protests are for naught because there is no way I’d be able to stop at tossing her on the bed. I’d surely follow.