Her Reluctant Wife: A Lesbian Age Gap Romance

windows. Too much light. It made her eyes water. The pain in

her head was ferocious, with fangs and teeth, shredding at her

throbbing brain.

This is mine. My home? No. Not home. Work? Yes, work.

What do I do? Why am I here? Why am I on the floor?

She reached for something past that, but it was like

extending a small hand around an object a thousand times the

size, touching the hard, forceful corners of it, the blunt surface,

and grasping nothing.

Her own name. She grasped for that. It came to her readily,

thank fuck. Giana. Giana Thompson. She had the vague

memory of a building. Her house? Large. It looked like a

resort. Timber on the outside. Cedar shingles. No. Her parent’s

house. Their new house. Not her childhood home. Her parents’

faces. She remembered them. Her mother, dark hair, dark eyes,

always so serious and hard. Not always. No, at one time, she

had laughed. Her father, blonde, blue eyed, tall, broad, proud,

but the shame there, in the depths of his eyes, in the depths of

his soul, of his being. Had he always looked that way? The

answer wouldn’t come.

“You hit your head.” That voice from above her, pulling her

out of the vortex of memories she was trying to conjure,

pulling her back. She didn’t want to come back. She went

anyway.

She blinked and the face focused. A sweet, heart-shaped

face. Young. Pretty. Big blue eyes. Thick lashes. Peach lips. A

faint blush on cheeks dotted with faint freckles. Brown hair

with red shot through by the insane amount of sunlight that

hurt so much.

She shut her eyes again. Tried to remember what her house