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But what did I expect? Obviously Mark is older than me, but that never seemed like such a big deal, especially where I’m from. I’m sure it’s just his excuse, an easy explanation, because he’s also everything I’m not. Successful, intelligent, confident, attractive.

I know I’m a bit plain. I’ve never worn makeup, have no clothing that shows my shape—both were frowned upon at home—, so I have no clue how to make myself desirable because I spent my whole life actively trying to do the opposite.

So why am I surprised he’s not interested in me?

I’m a broken girl, so much younger than him and so far behind people my age. If I’d had a normal childhood, I would be a completely different person right now. I’d be finishing up college in the next year or two, dating guys, probably living in my own little apartment and spending weekends going to the bars with friends. But instead, I’m living with a man I just met out of sheer desperation, with no friends, no education, and only a stubborn thread of hope.

I don’t blame him for laughing at the very idea of being with me.

I pick up the pen and finish my list, ignoring the lump in my throat, then decide to cook dinner. Maybe that will help. I move around the kitchen, setting pots and pans on the stovetop before I get to work chopping vegetables.

Cooking is a safe task. It keeps my hands busy and mythoughts in check. I make mental notes about groceries we’ll need as I begin mixing ingredients. When Mark finally comes into the room, I hear his footsteps before he speaks.

"It smells good," he says in a casual voice. It’s a far cry from the affronted tone he used while he was on the phone.

"Thanks."

He lingers just on the edge of my peripheral vision. "How was your day?"

"It was fine." I plate our food and walk past him to set the plates on the table without meeting his eyes.

"Claire." His tone is firm.

I turn to face him, schooling my expression to one of indifference. "Yes?"

"What’s wrong?"

I pause. Do I tell him the truth? He clearly notices something’s off.

Before I can decide how to answer him, something shifts in his expression as the pieces click together in his mind. "Did you happen to overhear any of my phone conversation earlier?"

My heart skips.Uh oh.I nod, unable to lie but wishing desperately that I hadn’t been standing in the hall.

"And you’re upset by what you overheard." It’s more of a statement than a question.

I glance down at the floor. "I don’t know. Kind of, I guess."

He sits in his chair and crosses his arms, but he doesn’t look angry. In fact, he looks almost amused as I meet his gaze.

"Are you unhappy that I said I wouldn’t fuck you, Claire?"

The bluntness of his question shocks me, and I almost choke on my own saliva. "It’s not that," I stammer. "Well, notexactly. I just…" I trail off, unsure how to put it into words.

He waits, his eyebrow cocked and his expression infuriatingly smug. Why does he have to be so attractive? And why does his unwavering stare after saying something so crude make my stomach swoop and my heart race?

"It’s just difficult," I finally say, "to feel so undesirable sometimes."

As soon as the confession leaves my lips, I wish I hadn’t said it. I brace myself for him to laugh, to dismiss me as childish and insecure, but when his low chuckle fills the room, it’s not cruel. It’s surprised.

"Is that really what you think?"

"Uh, yeah."

Mark closes his eyes and shakes his head slowly, like I’ve said something absurd. "It’s not that at all."

"Then what?" I challenge.

He takes a step toward me before seeming to catch himself and stopping a couple feet away, his expression softening. "You’retoodesirable, Claire. I’m struggling tonotwant you. But you’re very young—especially compared to me—and I don’t want to corrupt you."