Page 299 of Summer Heat
“Don’t you have a nurse for him?”
“We have someone who comes to check his medicine. The doctor comes once a week. That’s all I can afford.” Actually I’m running out of money for that too.
“You’ve been the one feeding him? Changing him?”
“When he’s awake enough to eat.” My stomach pitches as I remember holding in tears the last time I bathed him. It was almost worse that he was aware, feeling embarrassed that his daughter saw him naked. What choice did we have?
Compassion fills her eyes. “I would help you, but Jerk Face still controls my trust fund.”
Harper was furious when her estranged father granted her stepbrother control in his will. He said it was to keep the money safe—and secretly I thought it might be for the best. Christopher is a buzzkill, but he makes sure all her bills got paid. Harper’s a bleeding heart, incredibly nice but lacking practicality of any kind. She would hand over the two-thousand-dollar designer jacket off her back if a homeless person looked cold.
“In a few years I’ll turn twenty-two and have control. I can help you then.”
In a few years my father might be dead, but I don’t tell her that. It’s not her problem. “Don’t worry about us. Seriously, we’re fine. It’s hard right now, but it will get better.”
“Because you’re working on something.”
Nerves churn my stomach. I’m not even sure I could back out now if I wanted to. The man outside is keeping anyone from hurting me—considering I’m worth more to Damon Scott alive than dead. What would the guard do if I tried to leave? It doesn’t matter, because I can’t go anywhere with my father attached to the hospital bed.
“That’s right. Now tell me how long you’re here. I want to stay up late and talk about what you’ve been doing since I left.”
CHAPTER NINE
For two blissful days Harper stays with me. She told her professor that her dog at home died, which seems like a horrible lie—and not very believable either—but she has a way of wrapping men around her little finger. Except for Christopher, unfortunately.
We melt squares of butter to pour over popcorn and watch Gwyneth Paltrow in Emma. There aren’t any other beds in the house, so we turn it into a sleepover and share my bed. She even makes her grandmother’s recipe for clam chowder, which Daddy declares is delicious.
When a cab drives away with her Sunday afternoon, it feels like a cold splash of reality. The house is larger and emptier now that she’s gone. After sharing the last of the chowder with Daddy for lunch, I find some clippers in the tool shed.
For the next hour I attack the wayward branches, taming the bushes along the front of the house. They don’t look nearly as pretty as when we had landscapers, but that’s not the point.
My hands have blistered when I finally drop the metal shears to the grass.
I head inside, intent on a shower, when I hear the phone ring.
Landon has called twice more while Harper was here, and if it’s him, I’m not going to answer. The number is blocked, though, so I press the green Call button. “Hello?”
“Ms. Avery James,” comes the pleased male voice. Damon Scott.
I smooth my hair back as if he can see my wild-girl appearance. I probably look like I’ve been hacking my way through the rain forest right now. “Oh, hi.”
Paper shuffles on the line. “Are you ready for the big night?”
I’ll never be ready. “Do you have a date set?”
“This Saturday. The richest men in the city are panting to find out who you are.”
There’s no hiding from his knowing voice on the other end of the phone, but I still duck into the pantry and shut the door. Shame burns hotly on my cheeks. This Saturday. “I guess that’s good.”
“That’s excellent, trust me.”
“Said the spider to the fly.”
A low laugh. “This particular fly is going to get a very nice payday for her time in the web.”
I hope so or this would be pointless. “I don’t mean to be indelicate but…”
My breath catches because I’ve been taught so strenuously never to mention money. Never to appear weak. I know I need to break those habits. I’m no longer the wealthy, privileged daughter of one of the city’s most venerable businessmen. But talking about money is still as hard as touching myself, forbidden for long enough to make it physically painful.
