Page 40 of The Woman Who Couldn't Scream
By the time she graduated from high school, she had earned a scholarship to Johns Hopkins, the governor’s award for the development and funding for a twenty-four-hour charity day care, and she believed she could change the world.
University was everything she’d dreamed of. She studied languages, pre-med, psychology. She dabbled in the humanities. She led the debate team and for fun she played broomball on a hockey rink with tennis shoes, a ball and brooms.
She met Benedict Howard.
He attended a charity event and stood around with a bourbon on the rocks, looking ruthless and cynical.
She’d heard of the Howards. The ruthless family owned a ruthless corporation with a reputation for ruthless takeovers. A good reason to hit him up for a donation for her charity day care.
He ruthlessly turned her down.
She told him about the difference her facility had made for poor single mothers and their children.
He told her poor people shouldn’t reproduce if they couldn’t support their children.
She got into his face and told him rich, ruthless scum shouldn’t reproduce, either, but obviously his parents had.
In years to come, whenever she recalled his expression, she always smiled.
She then told him that before he mouthed off about things he didn’t know or understand, he should work at the day care center.
He said he would… when she did.
She told him she worked the 3A.M.to 8A.M.shift and she would see him there. She flounced off to importune a wealthy elderly gentleman who had watched the scene with chortling amusement and gave her ten thousand dollars for the day care, and promised another ten thousand if she could pry a single dollar out of young Benedict Howard.
She kissed him on the cheek and thanked him for the ten thousand, and told him she deserved the second ten thousand for not telling his wife about him sneaking cigars at the club.
She got the other ten thousand.
She didn’t expect to ever see Benedict at the day care, much less the next morning still in his tuxedo with his jacket off, his bow tie dangling and his cuffs rolled up. He looked like a disreputable James Bond. Which wasn’t a bad look when combined with a warmed bottle of formula in one hand and a teething toddler hanging on the opposite leg howling for its momma.
“Why do people need twenty-four-hour child care?” he asked with grinding impatience.
“Mothers who have no help sometimes have to work two jobs, one in the day and one at night.”
“Strippers?”
He was a judgmental asshole. No biggie. The world was full of judgmental assholes. But this guy was young, in his early twenties, and privileged, and seemed to have not a scrap of compassion or empathy for the less fortunate. “Yes, strippers. If they’re lucky enough and agile enough to perform the job. Stripping pays well. Waitressing at an all-night diner is more common, or working as a hospice nursing assistant. Also a lot of our mothers are going to school in the day while their kids are in school and working at night while their kids are asleep.”
“Supposedly asleep.” Leaning down, he scooped up the child and offered the bottle.
The child reached for it.
“Not until you smile first,” he told her.
Her lower lip stuck out. Her eyes refilled with tears.
“One smile,” he said, and he smiled at her.
The child, who had been crying intermittently for five nights straight, smiled back at him.
Merry exchanged an exasperated look with the director, Ms. Sandvig. Of course that baby would respond to him. When Merry saw him smile, she wanted to respond to him. She wanted to lavish him with smiles. She wanted to… well, hell. He was wealthy, privileged and a judgmental asshole. She shouldn’treallywant anything with him.
But she couldn’t resist.
Merry believed in gun control.
Benedict believed in the Second Amendment.
