"Excellent," my father replies.
"I'll need full access to the security center—"
"HEY!" I yell. "I don't like being talked around like I'm not even here, and I don't like people making my decisions for me! I don't want anyone following me around!"
"It's either Carter or Roger and Lewis," my dad says calmly, looking down his nose at me. "And the two of them aren't very good at fitting in," he says, pointing to the window. Roger and his new compatriot, both wearing black suits, are standing on the patio facing us. They both stick out like sore thumbs. Roger nods at me almost apologetically. "And Carter is one of the best. Trust me. I checked."
I glance at Carter, wondering what the hell his background is. I open my mouth to say something, but like always, my father has taken every good point and thrown it in my face. I turn and march out the door, cursing myself as I go. My father always accuses me of acting like a child, and then I go ahead and prove him right. It's like he creates the vacuum and I fill it.
Chapter Eleven
I can't sleep. I feel stifled, like my cotton sheets are choking me. Angrily, I kick them off, down to the foot of the bed. Not that it makes me feel any better.
When I was a teenager, moving my bedroom out here had made me feel a little more autonomous, like I was out of my father's grasp, but now it seems he has extended his reach. I stand up and walk around the room, trying some deep belly breathing to calm myself down. All I can think about is Carter and him, discussing my fate like I didn't even have a say. I wouldn't have expected that from Carter, but I guess my dad can make anyone do what he wants.
I stride over to the window facing the house and pull it open. The night air is cool and I close my eyes, feeling it blow against my face. I open them again and spot a mosquito throwing itself uselessly against the wire screen. Up at the house, a light in the far wing turns on.
I still as I see Carter illuminated against the bright light of his bedroom. I glance around furtively, but there's no way he can see me with the lights off in the boat house. He wears only a towel around his waist, and I watch as he runs a hand through his now short hair. I bet he was showering to rinse off all the pesky little hairs.
I inhale quickly as he whips off his towel, turning to drop it behind him. I get a glimpse of his ass before he turns to lean on the windowsill, seemingly lost in thought. I know I'm intruding on a private moment, but I can't help letting my eyes travel down his body...down the perfectly chiseled abs to the lines of his hips that beckon my glance even further. Thank goodness I have 20/20 vision.
He raises his arm, running his fingers once over the scar on his right temple, then feeling backward as it disappears under his hair. He gaze shifts from looking out over the ocean over to the boat house, and I feel like he's looking directly at me.
I feel pain and anger swirl up inside me. Not only did he lash out at me unfairly today, he then completely ignored my wishes and is now in cahoots with my father. I turn away from the window and hop back into bed, crawling up from the foot and depositing myself with an angry sigh on the mattress.
When I wake up the next morning, my jaw is sore from gritting my teeth while I was sleeping. I don't remember my dreams, but I'm pretty sure they weren't pleasant. I pull on some loose-fitting jeans and a tank top, and stuff my feet into some slippers. I wish there were a kitchen out here. That's the one drawback of living in the boat house. At least it's a weekday, so my father will be at work.
No, fuck. It hits me: today's Thanksgiving. That means all family, all day. Great. Just great. I'll have to see my dad and Carter, and Jack won't even be here to break up the tension. Football games on Thanksgiving? The NFL is crazy.
I shuffle over to the main house, my desire for coffee outweighing my desire to hide. I press in the key code as I spot Anne behind the counter. She glances up with a friendly smile as I let myself in.
"Morning! I just made the coffee about fifteen minutes ago if you want some."
"Thanks," I murmur, unaccustomed to being greeted with such cheeriness.
"Bree and Carter aren't up yet, but I thought I'd get started on some chopping," she says, waving her hand at an array of vegetables on the island in front of her.
"Oh, you're a...a chef, right?" I ask, searching my brain for some information about her passed on from Jack.
"Hardly. I own a small restaurant...ABC Diner. A for Anne, B for Bree, C for Carter," she explains. "I created all the recipes, mostly interpretations of some stuff passed down in my family, but I'm not classically trained or anything. So, you never told me, are there any dishes in particular you wanted to have today?"