Man of the House

by Abigail Graham

  "Hey!"

  "Your father said he wanted me to tutor you. You wouldn't need tutors if you weren't having some kind of issue with it. Let me see."

  He tries to snatch them away, but I dance back.

  I pull out a paper full of division problems. It has no markings on it besides his name and a big, red zero.

  "What's this?"

  He snatches it back and shoves it all in his backpack.

  "You handed in a blank paper?"

  "I already know how to do long division. It's stupid. Move."

  I wait a good ten seconds, then say, "Dressed and washed up. Bring those bags to the dining-room table. Don't make me come get them."

  "What are you going to do if I don't?" Jason demands.

  Tim shifts uncomfortably on his feet but doesn't speak up against his brother.

  I say nothing. I step aside and let them pass, granting them a moment to reach their rooms before I jog up the stairs and head into my new bedroom to change my own clothes.

  Aiden

  The meeting adjourns at eight. I pinch the bridge of my nose as they file out, then resist the urge to smack my wrist for it. I'm alone in the conference room, except for Roland—by telepresence.

  My oldest business associate, who loves so dearly to tell everyone what great friends we are, is fifteen years my senior, more than old enough to actually be Delilah's grandfather. Her mother wasn't much older than Delilah is now when she married her father. I was one of the groomsmen.

  Money is all Roland cares about. It's a sideline for me, a consequence of business. I enjoy the positive benefits I can create for people. The good works I can do. I learned long ago not to discuss such things with him. The outcome of that is never positive for our working relationship.

  “I hate this fucking thing,” he grumbles into his camera. “Why can’t we talk on the phone like normal people?”

  Do not engage, Aiden. Just ignore him.

  He rolls right over any answer I might have given.

  "So where did you squirrel away my daughter?"

  "I've put her to work with my boys. Tutoring them."

  Roland raises a thick, bushy eyebrow—his hair is bone white like the aggressive tufts of hair above his eyes, like two fat caterpillars clinging to his skull. He plays them to the hilt, part of his brand.

  "I expected to see her at this meeting. She's supposed to be learning the business. We talked about this. I didn't send her to babysit."

  "She's going to learn everything I can teach her," I confirm for him with a conciliatory nod. "I'm just helping her get comfortable. She’s very bright, and you need to trust in her abilities."

  "Aiden. You're a good businessman, but you're too soft. Waste too much money and time on your iniatives and your pet projects. You could be turning real profit instead of playing around with toy cars and handing out food to deadbeats."

  This conversation has a way of insisting upon itself even when I change the subject. "She'll be just fine. It'll be good for her to get out a bit."

  Roland frowns. "I don't want her getting dragged down some dark alley. She doesn't know her way around a city."

  Whose fault is that? I almost ask him, but don't.

  "She'll be perfectly safe. You know I won't let any harm come to your daughter, Roland. She's practically family."

  "She can be headstrong at times. Has all sorts of ideas."

  Thinks for herself, you mean.

  "I'll be in touch," he says.

  I let out a long sigh, almost a groan, as I stand. Roland held the meeting so long, everyone else was itching to leave. The man doesn't seem to have anything but his precious business in his life. Sometimes I wonder if Lilah was always meant to be just a vessel for that.

  Easy, Aiden. She's not a princess to be saved from a dark tower. This is a favor to a friend. An odd favor, but only that. I throw my coat over my shoulder and take the elevator down.

  I have an urge to walk home. I love city walks. The sights, the smells, the people. Dusk in the city is my favorite, a nice walk down Chestnut or Market with the lights just coming on and the crowds and people spilling out of bars and bistros.

  But I'm already two hours late, so I'm greeted by a car and a company driver in the garage. I fight sleep as the driver fights the traffic, and thank him when he drops me off. The doormen rush to open the door for me, and I feel a prickle of shame.

  It's for show, all these things. My peers expect it of me. City life has surprisingly little appeal—to me it's always been a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live here. My responsibilities permit little time at the country house.

  I press that down as the elevator carries me up.

  When I open the door, Lilah yanks it out of my hand.

  "Where have you been?" she barks, any hint of shyness gone. "They're driving me insane."

  As soon as the words escape her lips, she draws away, stands tall, and wrangles her emotions, waiting for the rebuke. Her face goes still. It stings me to see her expecting something like that from me. What has Roland done to make her this odd mix of brazen and shy?

  "I was held up. Meetings," and the words leave my mouth before I think to bite them back—"You can thank your father."

  "Of course," she grumbles, fuming.

  She's changed to casual dress, and it only serves to stir me from the fatigue of a sixteen-hour day. She wears a loose T-shirt that naturally slips off one shoulder and those curve-hugging tights they call yoga pants, and she's barefoot.

  The girl next door. I'd never know she was a rich man's daughter. She looks like everything I can never have.

  "What?" she says.

  God, I need to use my head—the one on my shoulders. I can't stare at her that way again. The creamy curve of her shoulder is so inviting. Her glare is not, but she's pretty even when she scowls.

  Never taking her eyes off me, she absently pulls her sleeve back up over her shoulder. It only serves to draw my eye to the inviting curves of her neckline.

  "What did they do?"

  "Look," she says, gesturing to the apartment.

  With apprehension, I head inside. I know exactly what my eldest did when I see a scattering of half-burned long division worksheets in the fireplace, with a fire extinguisher placed beside it.

  "He tried to burn his homework." I say.

  “He tried to burn his homework,” Lilah agrees. “I’m lucky he didn’t set off an alarm or sprinklers or something.”

  Lilah nods, her ponytail bouncing. It takes great effort to take my eyes from the sudden heaving of her chest when she rams a finger at the fireplace.

  "What am I supposed to do with them? I tried sitting him down to do his homework and he burned it."

  "Where's Tim?"

  "He ran to hide as soon as the yelling started. It was one-sided, by the way. Not my side. Why does Jason act out like that?"

  I gnaw on my lip, hesitant to even hint at the truth. I know why he's so difficult with the staff I hire to help me with him.

  "You need to talk to him."

  "Talk to him?" I say.

  "About this." She points at the papers again. "Unless you expect me to chain him to a desk."

  "Fine. We'll speak with him."

  "We?" she says.

  Lilah

  "We," he says again and takes my arm.

  A shiver runs up my back as his fingers close around my flesh. He's strong. He realizes what he's done and releases me, replacing his grip with a gesture with his other hand.

  "Long day at work. Shall we?"

  "He's in the pool." I sigh.

  When we reach the second floor, we find Jason in a dead man's float. He splashes water in our general direction with a lazy slap of his hand.

  "This is my pool," he proclaims. "Go away."

  Aiden grits his teeth. I rest a hand on his arm and feel a strange sensation when my hand rests on him. It's like we both carry an electrical charge, and the juice starts flowing whenever we touch.

  "Jason." Ai
den groans.

  "Oh, it's you," the boy says, glaring at me. "Good thing we didn't wait up for dinner, huh?"

  Aiden glances at me.

  "I had to make them something. I thought you'd be home on time." I flinch, wondering if I said the wrong thing, from the way he bristles.

  "Jason, out of the pool."

  Jason swishes his hands but otherwise just floats there.

  "Out. Now."

  Bobbing in the water, Jason shrugs and swims to the ladder and grabs the rungs.

  "We're going to have a talk about how you treat Miss Greymane and how you disrespect your teachers."

  "We're always going to have a talk," he snaps. "And this is how I treat Miss Greymane."

  He spits my name, just as he shoves me into the pool. His hands connect with the small of my back and my bare feet slip on the concrete, before I realize what's happening the water rushes up to hit my face with a cold slap. Then I'm submerged, flailing.

  My stupid shirt tangles my arms and I sink, water bubbling from my face as I scream in shock. One of the unfortunate side effects of screaming underwater is the choking rush as it comes in to fill my lungs.

  Wild panic surges though me. I thrash my arms, kick my feet, and when my head crests above the water, I scream. That only serves to send water crushing into my throat like it’s actively trying to kill me. My lungs burn as the last of my screams die. My muscles go raw, like I’ve been beaten with a meat tenderizer, as each panicked flail grows more frantic than the last. Then I start to sink, seeing the bottom reach up to smack me in the face.

  There's a boom that ripples in my ears, and strong arms loop around my body. Aiden lifts my knees and shoulders and he heaves me up above the surface and sets me on the edge of the pool.

  As Aiden emerges, his son creeps back, then turns and sprints away, fleeing. Soaked to the bone, Aiden rises from the water in his sodden business attire and sits beside me.

  "That's the end of this suit," he says. "Are you hurt?"

  I cough up a glut of water, and he gives my back a hearty slap. It takes a few moments’ struggle for air before I manage a ragged reply.

  "I can't swim."

  Aiden looks into the water and swishes his legs. "It's four feet deep. You just had to stand up."

  "Oh," I say, turning beet red.

  "That's not the point. That was an awful thing for him to do, and I’m going to discipline him."

  "Thank you," I blurt out. "I was pretty scared for a second there."

  He wrings the water out of his hair by dragging his fingers through it, then shakes them, spritzing the pool and my legs. I grab my ponytail and squeeze the damp out. It'll take hours to dry- it always does.

  We're sitting very close, I realize. I also realize that my clothes are soaked and molded to my body, and if it weren't for my underwear he'd be able to see everything. As it is, it's not very modest. He doesn't look at my chest, at least, and I am able to fight the urge to snap my arms closed over and let him know I'm paying attention to whether he's looking or not…

  This all feels so silly, and a giggle bubbles out of my throat. I look away, just as he snorts, fighting laughter.

  "He really could have hurt you. This isn't funny. What if you hit your head?"

  I reply with a strained snicker, fighting the giggles. Aiden chokes himself not to burst out laughing. He smells like pool water.

  "We can't let him know we were laughing," he says. "Why don't you go get dried off and get dressed? I'll come collect you, and we'll go scold him."

  "I want to talk first," I say, rising to my feet on quivering legs.

  As I rush back into my room and into the bathroom, trying not to drip pool water everywhere, I try to make sense of the swirling in my stomach, the way it felt when he put his arms around me, the intense rush I felt when he lifted me out of the pool.

  Sighing, I dump my sodden clothes in the shower and towel myself down. Would he really be interested in me? The figure in the mirror is no model, I know that.

  Oh, how I know that. When I was thirteen I made the mistake of asking my father for a birthday cake, like the other kids at school got.

  His voice still stings.

  “You’re already getting a belly! No cake or you’ll get fat, and then what good are you? Don’t let me hear you’re getting any from the little urchins at that school, either. I pay too much for them to fatten you up like a Christmas ham.”

  As I dry my hair I wonder what Aiden’s hands would feel like on my bare skin. I've only felt his hands with my own—every other place he's touched has been covered by clothing.

  I snap my head in a quick shake, like a dog with a toy. No, Delilah. This guy is absolutely, one-hundred-percent off limits, and he's probably not interested in a bubblehead like me anyway. Why would he be?

  When I step out, Aiden is already there. He's changed into slacks and a polo shirt, and his hair is still wet. His skin is damp enough that the cotton clings to his body. Where does he find time to exercise as much as he'd need to, to look like that? I can't stop looking at his broad, muscled chest and tree-trunk arms.

  Stop it! His eyes are up there.

  Aiden

  Legs.

  I almost say the word out loud. Lilah steps out of her room in a loose, flowing T-shirt over a pair of denim shorts. They're nowhere near as revealing as some I've seen, but it doesn't matter. Her deliciously muscled, silken legs draw my gaze just as they draw blood from my head to my lower extremities. I have a sudden, raging desire to feel her skin under my hands, to feel her silky-smooth thighs clamped around my head while I'm between them, to taste her and tease her. My heart is beating hard.

  She blinks a few times, and I wonder if she even realizes how I'm looking at her. How men look at her. The thought of anyone else caressing her with their eyes this way stirs a primal, gut-level anger that mingles with the lightheaded need she creates.

  I want to push her against the wall right now and lift her off her feet and eat her all up. Feel her nails digging into my skin, hear her harsh whispers in my ear: Yes, please, more.

  She’s staring at me, wringing her hands behind her back. Her posture makes her chest thrust out. Even in a loose-fitting top it's obvious she's been hiding ample curves under her attire.

  Finally I snap myself out of it. "Let's go scold my son."

  Lilah nods. Her hair is still damp, heavy against the back of her neck. It leaves dark streaks on her back, sticking her top to her skin. She smells wet, and every breath of her flares in my chest, like a breath full of hot embers. It takes every effort not to stare at her.

  When I do look at her, she snaps her gaze away, and her expression stills.

  It's not a long walk to my son's bedroom. I find the door locked, grunting as the knob refuses to turn in my hand. I give the wood a light rap but shake it in its frame anyway.

  "Open up, Jason. You know locking the door does nothing."

  He swings the door open, aiming a glare so petulant it could etch glass. I push into the room, filling it with my presence. Lilah steps in behind me, arms folded, shoulders in, her resolve eroded. She shifts uncomfortably on her bare feet.

  I take a half step and turn back, and nudge her forward with a hand on her shoulder. She flinches when I touch her, and I feel a quiver passing through her body, a little sucking gasp of breath.

  "Apologize to Lilah."

  "Lilah?" Jason smirks.

  "Miss Greymane," I correct.

  "Why? She just got wet."

  "She could have hit her head, and she can't swim."

  Lilah shudders. Maybe I shouldn't have said that.

  "It's like this deep," Jason argues, holding out his hand. "She could just stand up."

  "Enough," Delilah snaps, the sudden crack in her voice shocking us both.

  Jason glares at her.

  "You will treat her with respect, and you will do your schoolwork." I declare.

  "It's dumb."

  "It's happening. You can't get out of it. You're a
lready enrolled in summer school, and if you refuse to do it then you'll repeat the grade."

  "So what? It's not like I need to go to school. I'm rich."

  Lilah flushes and glances at me. "You still need to learn. There's a lot about the world you don't know," she says. "You have no idea what you'll discover if you try."

  "Like long division? I did it already."

  Lilah rolls her eyes. "Doing it once doesn't mean you can do it again. Besides, you're just telling us you know. Maybe you really don't, and you're faking."

  "I am not!"

  "So prove it," she says. "Tell your teacher to give you make-up papers tomorrow for all the homework. Do them, and I'll believe you."

  "She said they don't count if I already turned them in."

  "So they don't." Lilah says. "You're attending summer school whether you want to or not. You have to accept the consequences of your actions."

  Jason glares at her.

  So, I step in.

  "If you can't behave yourself and do what you need to do here, it’ll be military school. This is important, Jason."

  He goes pale and glowers at me, then retreats into his room.

  I start to turn, but Lilah marches inside. "Help me with this, will you?"

  She unplugs his television and heaves it into her arms. I grab it and take it before she drops it. She wastes no time gathering up video game consoles and his laptop computer.

  "What are you doing?" he almost screams.

  "You don't work, you don't play," she says. "The goodies come back when you start doing what you need to do."

  "She's right," I add. "I have what I have because I worked for it. Clearly, you need to learn the same lesson."

  I can feel him staring daggers at our backs even as we leave the room. Lilah follows me to the storage closet and piles up his expensive toys next to toddler clothes and some odds and ends I've kept.

  She takes a look around. "Odd. You don't seem like the clutter type."

  I usher her out of the room with my hand on the small of her back. "It's nothing, just some old things."

  She glances past me, a curious look on her face.

  "You handled that very well. You really do have experience,” I say.