Page 30 of Hate Me Like You Mean It

“That’s double the time you’d need to take a chainsaw to half this house.”

I beamed at him, pressing a hand to my chest. “Dominiiic. Thank you so much. That’s so nice.”

The doorbell chimed again, interrupting the tense working of his jaw. I patted his cheek, putting a little more force behind each one than necessary. “Furniture’s here. Come on, Grandmommy needs to build her baby a widdle cwib.”

By the last smack, he looked ready to develop an ulcer.

If I played my cards right, I’d be able to get him there by the end of the hour.

10

Dear me/ journal/ god.

What a terrible weekend.

I had so many things planned but it rained the whole time and the power even went out on Saturday so me and Loch Ness got so bored that we invented another game. I’m going to start keeping track of these so I don’t forget any of them when I start my gaming company later.

“No.”

Dominic’s grin was downright sinister as he placed the sealed package on the kitchen counter. “We’ve already had this argument, Lice. It’s officially part of your uniform.”

“I’m not going to wear a leash.”

“Then forfeit.”

I crossed my arms, fixing him with a bored glare as my mind raced, trying to find a way out of this. “No part of Rosie’s old uniform was degrading, Dominic. Tit for tat, remember?”

“Four days ago, a man spat on my face because of a rumor you started. Don’t talk to me about what you think is or isn’t degrading.”

“And as a consequence, you’ve spent four days working me like a dog, scrutinizing my every move, and timing my bathroom breaks. I’d call that even, wouldn’t you?”

I’d scrubbed every surface of this house twice over, polished three hundred pieces of silverware he’d ordered specifically for that purpose, unclogged a toilet he’d stuffed with shredded stems and flowers, buffed every shoe he owned, steamed his every suit, and built a handful of furniture while he hovered over me, making snide remarks every time I had to refer back to the manuals. “It’s a picture book, Lice. It really shouldn’t be that hard for you to follow.”

There had been no real breaks. No sitting. No lunch. Nothing but barked orders and neurotic scrutiny from the fork-tongued demon gorging himself on my misery.

Every time I’d so much as paused to wipe the sweat off my forehead, he’d snapped at me to get back to work, “and chop chop, little plague, you’re running out of time, and a new task just made the list.”

Suffice to say, I was exhausted, sore, and my patience was wearing dangerously thin.

Dominic nudged the leash toward me. “And that’s not going to change, so why not dress the part, seeing as how you’re going to continue working like a dog?”

I chewed the inside of my cheek, thinking, thinking, thinking. He wanted me to forfeit. That’s what this was all about. He wanted me to refuse, quit, and walk away so he could move on with his life.

But here’s the thing. When someone’s hovering over you for fourteen hours a day, it becomes pretty easy to pick up on recurring behavioral patterns. Especially if you’re paying attention.

So I knew, for example, that my presence was causing a rather inconvenient ripple effect across at least two major sectors of his life: work and relationships. He’d stupidly banked on me not lasting a day in this role and hadn’t thought to prepare for any “what-ifs.”

There’d been phone calls taken in adjacent rooms. Hushed apologies. Promises to make up for his absence. Redelegation of projects. A few somethings about a merger he was supposed to be overseeing. And a thirty-minute call made every day at 1:00 p.m. that included more listening than talking and always ended with a quiet “love you, bye.”

Rosie, I assumed.

His was a personality only a mother could love.

I’d have felt bad about the havoc I was wreaking on his professional life if he hadn’t spent fifteen months meticulously decimating mine.

Needing to buy myself more time to think, I picked up the sealed collar and leash. It was, as expected, an utter abomination. The collar was thick, hard, made from cheap pleather, and the demonstrative photos on the back of the package were upsettingly graphic.

“My assistant had to pick it up from a local fetish store,” Dom explained casually. “It’s the only one that guarantees chafing. And proudly, I might add.”