Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 57270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
He turns to me, both his eyebrows raised in surprise. “Oh?”
“When I imagine your mind it’s a seashore early in the morning, calm and crystal clear. If a stone is thrown into the water the ripples just dissipate, one by one, and a moment later it’s like nothing happened. You probably don’t even know how lucky you are.”
I’m smiling as I say it, but I’m filled with so much sadness it aches. Mr. Blomqvist considers my words, trying to piece together what I’m getting at. I like that about him. I feel heard whenever I’m with him, and whatever he replies with I know he’s chosen every word carefully.
“I’m jealous of your plants, too,” I whisper, knowing I’m treading in dangerous waters now.
“My bonsai?”
“Yes. They’re small and perfect, because you made them that way. They never worry that they should be anything else. Why would they want to be?”
My voice cracks and a few hot tears spill down my face. I rarely say anything like this to my therapist. I’m too busy trying to impress her with how okay I am.
But I’m not okay. I’m really not.
Mr. Blomqvist mutters something in Swedish and puts his arms around me. Sharasta, or something like it. I wonder if he swore, but it sounded too soft to be a curse word. The gesture is platonic and kind and only makes me want to cry harder, feeling his arms tight around me. I want to bury my face in his chest and just let it all out, but I’ve already shown too much weakness.
I am strong and calm, I repeat to myself until my tears stop. It takes several minutes, and all the while I breathe in his scent of almonds and leather.
I pull away from him, wiping my eyes, hating to go but knowing I have to. “Sorry. Please don’t fire me. I know I’m a mess, but it’s just in the cracks, you know? Between the time that matters.”
“It all matters, Lacey.”
I press my palm over my eyes, wishing he wouldn’t say things like that. I have to believe it doesn’t matter that I break down every now and then because I know that I’m going to, over and over.
“I wish I were one of your bonsai plants,” I whisper, not looking him. “I wish I could feel like there was one reason for me to be. One thing I had to do.” I wish I had someone who understands what I need and is there for the worst parts, as he is now. “I feel different when I’m around you. I like you very much and wish you could…”
I choke the words off because I’m not treading in dangerous waters now, I’m walking right into a deep, shark-infested ocean with stones in my pocket.
He puts a hand lightly around my throat, right over the velvet choker, and rests it there. “Lacey. Why did you start wearing this? I noticed it the week after you started working for me.”
I blink away the shimmer of tears and see him gazing back at me intently. His hand around my throat is large and warm, and grounding, too. It’s suddenly easier to speak. Not just words, but the truth.
“I wore it as a reminder to be useful to you. I feel it against my skin and it brings me pleasure. Helps me focus.”
Reading his expression is impossible. “Is that why you kept saying sir?”
I nod. “Because I like it. And because I thought maybe you liked it.”
My lips tingle. Mr. Blomqvist watches me with gentle eyes, his hand still wrapped around my throat. Doing nothing. Just touching me. Grounding me.
“Being here is the only place lately that I’ve felt okay.”
He lets me go and the temperature of the room plummets by ten degrees. “Are you so unhappy, Lacey?”
I laugh hollowly and tug at the hem of my dress. “Unhappy? I’m lonely. I’m anxious. I sometimes feel out of control and do stupid things.”
“What stupid things?”
But I can’t say. I’m too ashamed of what I do. I know it’s not healthy to skip one meal, let alone two or three a day. It’s the only way I have of feeling on top of things and that I’m not a complete failure, and I can’t even do it anymore. For six whole months I haven’t skipped a meal or exercised for more than ninety minutes a day. This is supposed to be what recovery looks like, but I feel worse than ever.
“I’m getting help. I do everything my therapist says. But nothing makes me feel as good as…” I reach up and touch the velvet at my throat. “As you do.”
He looks at me for a long time, his arms folded. “Is it purely emotional, or do you want me to fuck you?”
I suck in a breath. Jesus. Did he really just say that? I suppose he knows what it means then, to collar someone. That it’s sexual. Is he into being a dom, and did he know what I’ve been doing all along? “Would you, if I asked you to?”