Defending Her Dignity

by Jade Webb

  I do my best to look sternly at her, but I can’t help but smile. “You evil, scheming little girl.”

  She bursts into a fit of giggles but gives me a victorious smile. Clearly, I have lost this round.

  The whole drive home Isabel offers me ideas for where I should go with Ricky on my date. She is torn between the zoo (she thinks Ricky would like penguins) and the Cheesecake Factory (she likes their grilled cheese).

  As we pull into the garage, Isabel is still listing off ideas. When we walk into the kitchen, I see Lawrence on his phone, a grim expression on his face. The minute he sees Isabel bound into the room, his eyes light up and he quickly ends the call.

  Isabel finally stops offering me dating advice and runs into his arms, planting a kiss on his cheek. I trash my empty coffee cup and reach into the fridge for a water bottle, trying to look busy so I can avoid any kind of awkward encounter with Lawrence. He’s probably going to want to check in how things went today and I am not entirely confident I will be able to have a conversation without remembering what it felt like to have his giant cock rubbing up against me and giving me one of the best orgasms I’ve had in my life. Which I am still finding incredibly confusing given that I am not this bashful virgin: I have had lovers. And none have ever bestowed upon me the kind of orgasm that came from simply rubbing up against Lawrence. But if I’m being honest here, it wasn’t just that. It was the way he let me take control and take the lead. He never pushed, never took without asking. And the way he said my name, telling me to come for him. It was excruciatingly sexy and even just the memory of it has my body humming again with need.

  “Daddy! Daddy! Guess what!” Isabel shouts as she jumps up and down in the kitchen.

  “What kiddo?” Lawrence asks, an amused smile curling at the corners of his lips.

  “Yael is going on a date! With Ricky!”

  I choke back the sip of water as Lawrence’s eyes find mine. The smile instantly disappears from his face and I can read the flash of annoyance that crosses his face.

  “Who’s Ricky?” he asks, his question aimed clearly for me.

  “He works at the cafe we go to a lot,” I respond, doing my best to ignore his irritated stare and push back the annoyance I feel that he is obviously upset. He has no right to be. And sure, I don’t really want to go on this date with Ricky — at all — but Lawrence sure as hell doesn’t have a right to be angry about it.

  His jaw ticks as he nods. “When are you going out with him?”

  Despite my best efforts, I feel myself sink under the weight of his stare. “Next Saturday.”

  “Next Saturday you’re working,” he snaps.

  “You told me to take it off,” I shoot back, steadying my gaze on his. His eyes are hard and unfeeling as they look at me.

  “Something came up. I’ll actually need you that night.”

  “Aren’t you going out that night? And I thought Isabel was going to visit Daphni that weekend?”

  “You want to go out with him?” he asks. Isabel looks up at us, confused by the exchange and the sudden change in her father’s mood.

  Caught off guard by his direct question and his penetrating glare, I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know,” I answer. “I guess.”

  “You guess?” he asks, an unmistakable clip of annoyance in his voice.

  “Yes, I want to go out with him,” I answer, my voice laced with obvious annoyance.

  “Well, I guess you will have to reschedule if you want to continue working. I need you to come with me to the gala.”

  “What?” I ask, confused. “Go with you to the gala?”

  Lawrence shoots me an annoyed look. “No.” He blows out a frustrated sigh. “Well, yes. I need you to come and do some recon work.”

  “Recon work?”

  “Yes, like reconnaissance work. Like what,” he waves his hand around in annoyance, “you military people do.”

  I thrust my hands on my hips and stare him down. “You want me to do recon work at a ballroom gala? What do you want me to do? Spy for cheap caviar? Make sure that the Versace is all real and no poor people accidentally found their way in?”

  Lawrence glares at me, but I refuse to back down. He’s being irrational and demanding. I was a fool for thinking he was anything but.

  “Yael—”

  I throw my arms up in the air. “Fine, you win. I’ll go this gala, do your ‘recon’ work for you. I don’t know what you want from me, but you win. Okay?” I spin on my heel, grab my bag, and rush out of the kitchen. I need to put some distance between us, because as much as I hate to admit it, I need this paycheck. And, if I stay a minute longer, there is an excellent chance this water bottle will end up in his face and I’ll be out of yet another job.

  20

  Lawrence

  I pace in my bedroom, second-guessing myself for the fortieth time tonight. I know she’s pissed at me. I can’t even blame her. I know I was a dick.

  I don’t even know why I feel so annoyed right now. I don’t want to admit that I’m upset she agreed to go out on a date with that...that barista.

  Why did it piss me off so much? When had I let her get under my skin?

  The minute you saw her, when she walked into your living room like she owned the damn place. And then you saw every inch of her gorgeous curves. And when her brown eyes first locked on yours, challenging you.

  I’ve tried to ignore it, but it’s useless. Something about her has roused something inside me that I thought had been buried a long time ago. Something I hadn’t let myself miss, because I had too precious a gift in Isabel to bring any fling into the house that she may grow attached to. I couldn’t bring another Fiona into Isabel’s life.

  But Yael is different. She’s smart and she doesn’t take my shit. She’s funny and sarcastic and when she touches me, she makes me feel like the most important person in the world. It doesn’t hurt that she’s also gorgeous. God, what I would give to have her in my bed. Even for just a night.

  Shit, who the hell am I kidding? One night with Yael would never be enough.

  I shove my hand through my hair and let out a long breath. The thought of Yael in my bed has gotten me hard, which has been an unfortunate side effect of having her live here for the past two months. I can’t help but watch her as she moves, the sway of her full hips as she chases after Isabel, the way her nose scrunches as she laughs and her full, dark lips as she smiles. Everything about her is addictive, and the thought of her wanting to go out with another man infuriates me. I want her to just be mine. Why does she have to be so damn stubborn? Why can’t she see that we clearly have something here?

  I groan at the trail of thoughts my overactive mind has stumbled down. I can’t let myself go down this path. Oded told me when I hired his firm that Yael’s goal is to travel the world and hopefully join Daphni on her next tour. I couldn’t offer her a life like that—not with a business to run and a daughter to raise. I want stability for Isabel. Yael wants—and deserves—the world.

  And she most definitely doesn’t deserve me acting like a possessive asshole. So with that, I steel myself and head out of my room to her bedroom down the hall.

  I give the door a loud knock. When I don’t hear a response, I knock again. After a few more moments of silence, I push my ear to the door and listen. I can’t hear a sound. Maybe she’s sleeping. A wave of disappointment rushes over me and I decide to cure it with a Scotch. Movie night doesn’t start for another hour and Isabel is busy practicing her latest karate moves in her bedroom.

  I jog down the stairs and make my way down the hall to the kitchen. The sound of faint music stops me, and I follow the noise down the hall, reaching the small gym I’d had built.

  As I walk closer, I see Yael through the glass-paneled window, attacking the boxing bag I had installed on a whim and had used only a handful of times. She’s covered in a thin layer of sweat, her dark hair pulled into a high ponytail that swings with every punch she lands. Her brown eyes are laser focused, never leaving the bag
. With each blow, she lets out a frustrated breath. As I watch her fist make contact with the bag, I realize that my face superimposed on that black bag is likely her motivation for kicking the crap out of it right now. Well, that’s a great fucking feeling.

  I swing open the glass door and step inside. She’s blasting Tupac’s “California Love” as she beats the shit out of this bag. When she sees me enter the room, she gives me a disinterested glance before going back to attacking the poor bag, which I’ll probably have to replace after another month of her living here.

  I lean against the wall and watch, my eyes drawn to her lithe body. Every movement she makes sends a ripple of muscles through her body. And it’s hard not to notice that body. She’s wearing tight leggings and a black sports bra under a deep-cut white muscle tank that clings to her glistening body. Her face is unreadable, but her eyes never leave the target in front of her. Seeing her, in her element, I realize how much I underestimated the drive and determination possessed by this woman. And how sexy it is.

  As the song ends, Yael pauses and turns to stop the next song from playing. She tilts her head and I take it as my invitation to finally apologize. I push up from against the wall and stand in front of her. I will every cell in my body to not let my eyes drop down to admire her cleavage in that bra. It’s hard.

  “I want to apologize. For how I acted earlier.”

  She arches her brow and gives me her classic eye roll as she starts to unwrap the black bands from her hands. So, clearly, she isn’t going to make this easy for me.

  “It was wrong of me to get so…short with you, and to tell you about this gala at the last minute,” I continue. “I’m really sorry.”

  Her brown eyes stare me down for a long few seconds before she finally relents, and her features soften. “It’s okay.”

  I nod my head, feeling a bit of weight lift off my shoulders. “So, you’re off the hook for next Saturday. No need to come.”

  She shrugs her shoulder and takes a long sip from her water bottle. Suddenly her neck, and the way the water visibly slides down her throat, is the most fucking fascinating thing I’ve seen in my life.

  “It’s okay. I already canceled with Ricky.”

  And as much as I hate myself for it, I feel relieved. Even happy.

  “You did?” I try to ask as nonchalantly as I can.

  She shrugs her shoulders as she leans against the wall. “I didn’t really want to go. Your precious little Isabel forced me into it.”

  I force myself to laugh, even though I’m planning on finding a way to get revenge on Isabel. Maybe I’ll force her to eat extra broccoli for dinner. “Yeah, she has a habit of doing that,” I admit. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Sure.” She grabs her bottle and steps toward the door. As she’s about to leave, she turns around and offers me a mischievous smile. “I’ll be on the clock, anyways, since I’m doing…how did you call it? ‘Recon?’”

  I bite back a smile and nod my head somberly. “Recon. Right. Very important.”

  She forces back a laugh and walks out the door. I follow her with my eyes until she rounds the corner, disappearing from my sight. I’m relieved that everything is good between us. But even more, I’m excited. It’s been years since I’ve been on a date, and the idea of having an evening with Yael all to myself is very tempting.

  And sure, paying someone to spend the evening with you really isn’t a date so much as a…well, you know. But if this was the only way I could spend time with her, I didn’t care. I didn’t care the cost, or that it made me some pathetic, lovesick fool. All I cared about was that next Saturday evening, Yael was mine.

  21

  Yael

  “Isabel! Time to get up, sleepy head!” I lift the bright blue sheets off the bed, and Isabel squirms uncomfortably, moaning as the morning light hits her.

  “Yella! Five minutes and I want you up!”

  As she starts to wake up, I head back into my bathroom, throw my hair up into a bun, and quickly brush my teeth. After I’m done, I poke my head into Isabel’s room to make sure her teeth are brushed, then I pull her uniform from her drawer and lay it out on the bed for her. Then I pop back into my room and finish getting dressed, easily falling into the busy morning routine that we’ve managed to develop in these last few months.

  I stick my head into the room to make sure she’s on schedule before jogging downstairs for my morning fix. Like clockwork, Lawrence hands me a cup of coffee, no cream, six sugars, as he checks his email on his phone. It’s a silent exchange: we’ve both discovered that neither one of us is fully capable of verbal dialogue until we’ve had our coffee.

  As I sip my coffee, I sneak a peek over at Lawrence, scrolling through his phone and answering a few emails. We’ve thankfully fallen back to a place where we’re comfortable being alone in the same room. A silent pact was formed that we wouldn’t discuss the incidents that had occurred in the kitchen, and instead focus on Isabel and keeping her safe.

  And truthfully, even if Lawrence did insist on talking about it, I would have no idea what to say. I couldn’t wrap my head around what the chemistry between us even meant. Yeah, it felt amazing and my body was literally begging me for more of it, but it was my annoying brain that was shutting everything down. I couldn’t get out of my own head long enough to let my poor body get the release she needed. I couldn’t let myself risk admitting what I might be feeling for Lawrence is more than pure attraction. And if we finished what we started? No way would I be able to walk away from that unharmed. So yes, it was better to just continue our days pretending it never happened. And thankfully, it seemed like Lawrence was in agreement.

  After a few moments, I hear Isabel’s footsteps rushing down the stairs followed by her walking into the kitchen, still wiping the sleep from her eyes. Robotically, she searches for the cereal and pours herself a bowl, still not one hundred percent awake.

  “Add a banana,” Lawrence instructs as he finishes looking down at his phone. He grabs a banana and sits it in front of Isabel, pressing a kiss on her head and putting his coffee mug into the sink.

  Isabel obliges and cuts the banana with her spoon before placing it strategically in her cereal.

  “Oh, by the way, I’m dropping Isabel off today,” Lawrence tells me as he tucks his phone back into his pocket.

  “Eh?” I ask at the change of plans.

  “I have a delivery coming for you later this morning,” he explains.

  “A delivery?”

  “Dresses.”

  “Dresses?” I echo.

  Lawrence smiles. “For the gala on Saturday.”

  I feel my cheeks heat as I realize that of course, I needed a dress. I hadn’t thought of it. I had never even been to a gala. I must look like an idiot.

  “You don’t have to do that,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “It’s nothing.”

  I nod, unsure how to respond, and continue to sip my coffee. Isabel finishes her cereal quickly with a sense of newfound energy at the excitement of having her father bring her to school.

  At ten to seven, Lawrence grabs Isabel’s bag off the seat and tells her it’s time to go. “So, I’ll see you later?” Lawrence asks as he follows Isabel out the door.

  I offer him another quick nod, drawing another smile from him. As they head out the door, I look down at my outfit of black jeans, black boots, and a dark grey Henley. How did he ever expect someone like me to fit in at some fancy event like a gala? Galas were not meant for people like me. They were meant for people who knew what the different forks on a table meant, how to properly pronounce “hors d'oeuvre,” and who didn’t drink their wine out of a box. I’m as rough around the edges as they come. Not only am I Israeli, which means that I lack any sort of social-appropriateness filter, but I was raised by a military man. Grace and eloquence were subjects I had neglected to focus much on in my schooling.

  Feeling resigned, I decide to plop down and catch up on the news. When that quickly bores me, I switch over and find
the Housewives show that Eva is obsessed with watching. And judging by the next hour I spend captivated by it, I have to admit that perhaps I am a bit more addicted to reality TV than I had realized. Only when the doorbell rings do I finally drag myself away from the TV to the front door where I find two women, each the other’s opposite.

  The first is an older woman, in her mid-fifties, with her bleach-blonde hair piled high on top of her head. Under a pair of oversized cat-eye glasses, she has dramatic bright blue winged eyeliner. She pairs the look with a bright coral lip, and somehow the whole thing just works. She wears a matching light coral shift dress that hangs off her tiny frame. An oversized necklace, at least forty bangles, and a giant diamond ring complete the outfit. It’s the kind of look that really only works within a thirty-mile radius of Los Angeles.

  The woman behind her, the one looking like she wants to pass out as she hoists two large suitcases up the stairs, is a younger, more toned-down version of the almost cartoonish woman standing at the front door. My guess is that she’s the assistant. She can’t be more than thirty and her dark black hair, cut in a blunt bob, frames an angelic face that doesn’t have a stitch of makeup on it. She’s dressed in a simple black pant suit that I am guessing is more utilitarian than the dress and six-inch heels her boss is wearing.

  Before I can introduce myself, the older woman holds out her hand; it’s limp as it dangles in front of me. Unsure of what to do, I give it a gentle shake. Judging by the obvious flash of annoyance that crosses the woman’s face, I did it wrong. Were designers like the pope? Should I have kissed her ring?

  “I am Genevieve. I am here to help dress you for the gala this weekend,” the woman explains. Her voice is high-pitched, and she draws out each word as she says it, adding extra emphasis to the word “gala.”

  “Uh, great. Come in,” I offer, standing to the side. The woman walks in, her chin high as her eyes dart around the large foyer, a tight-lipped smile on her lips.