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thinking about a young woman coming to look through her inheritance after her estranged father dies
her father's secretary who quietly says he'll assist her to catalogue his things and it isn't until much later she realises he wasn't JUST his secretary
her father's secretary who quietly says he'll assist her to catalogue his things and it isn't until much later she realises he wasn't JUST his secretary
she doesn't even realise he was his secretary at first
assumes he's a lawyer or something , bc he's tall and square shouldered, and wears wool jumpers over crisp shirts, almost always with the arms rolled up to his elbows, and he has TATTOOS
assumes he's a lawyer or something , bc he's tall and square shouldered, and wears wool jumpers over crisp shirts, almost always with the arms rolled up to his elbows, and he has TATTOOS
he greets her quietly, curtly, politely. he does not smile. he says that he is sorry for her loss, and when she says it's not much a loss for her, bc she didn't really know him, his face is completely blank, and he walks away from her
it's a big house but a lot of it is just rooms filled with furniture covered over in white cloths.
"kept for the purposes of your inheritance," says the secretary. "family heirlooms. valuable, some of them. he didn't want you to think he was trying to cheat you out of them."
"kept for the purposes of your inheritance," says the secretary. "family heirlooms. valuable, some of them. he didn't want you to think he was trying to cheat you out of them."
"why would I think that?"
"he was very aware of how certain behaviours might be interpreted. other people's perceptions of him made him extraordinarily anxious."
"he had anxiety?"
"often."
"he was very aware of how certain behaviours might be interpreted. other people's perceptions of him made him extraordinarily anxious."
"he had anxiety?"
"often."
"what else made him anxious?"
"crowds. open spaces. large dogs. horses. spiders, scorpions, snakes. tumours. radiation. loud noises."
"everything made him anxious."
"a lot of things. he didn't leave the house often."
"that why he hired you?"
"i never asked. maybe."
"crowds. open spaces. large dogs. horses. spiders, scorpions, snakes. tumours. radiation. loud noises."
"everything made him anxious."
"a lot of things. he didn't leave the house often."
"that why he hired you?"
"i never asked. maybe."
"he never had girlfriends?"
"no."
"he didn't remarry?"
"no."
"my mother said he never loved her. that they got married and he walked out when she said she was pregnant."
"yes."
"why?"
"I don't know."
"would you tell me if you did? or keep it secret?"
"no."
"he didn't remarry?"
"no."
"my mother said he never loved her. that they got married and he walked out when she said she was pregnant."
"yes."
"why?"
"I don't know."
"would you tell me if you did? or keep it secret?"
"your father employed me to keep his confidences, among other things."
"even after he's dead?"
"especially now. who else remains to keep them?"
"even after he's dead?"
"especially now. who else remains to keep them?"
"all his family died during the war?"
"yes. his brothers both died in the trenches. his mother and father were in a motor accident. various aunts, uncles, cousins perished too. he returned home to find no one waiting for him but your mother. they'd already been affianced."
"yes. his brothers both died in the trenches. his mother and father were in a motor accident. various aunts, uncles, cousins perished too. he returned home to find no one waiting for him but your mother. they'd already been affianced."
"people used to think there was something wrong with my mother. that he left her and became a shut-in and didn't want anything to do with us."
"i don't believe that was his intention."
"he ruined her life."
"I'm sorry she felt that way."
"i don't believe that was his intention."
"he ruined her life."
"I'm sorry she felt that way."
"what did he need a secretary for, anyway? he was an author, right?"
"yes. i was his go-between for his publishers, editor. i went to the post office for him, helped him draft, fixed his typewriter once or twice a day. he could never keep it in good repair."
"yes. i was his go-between for his publishers, editor. i went to the post office for him, helped him draft, fixed his typewriter once or twice a day. he could never keep it in good repair."
"you like him?"
"very much, I did."
"you don't act like it."
"I'm not very expressive by nature. your father understood that - embraced it, even. perhaps that is why we were such dear friends."
"friends."
"you're unfamiliar with the premise, I take it."
"ouch."
"very much, I did."
"you don't act like it."
"I'm not very expressive by nature. your father understood that - embraced it, even. perhaps that is why we were such dear friends."
"friends."
"you're unfamiliar with the premise, I take it."
"ouch."
they go through things piece by piece - furnishings, art, books. none of it is very personal, and almost all of it belongs to the family, not to him.
they sort what is to be sold, what's to be kept.
it takes nearly a week before they move to the bedroom.
they sort what is to be sold, what's to be kept.
it takes nearly a week before they move to the bedroom.
it's a neatly appointed room with a double bed in the corner of the room, a desk and chair, an armchair with books piled up beside it.
the secretary brushes the pile. "his to be read," he says softly.
the secretary brushes the pile. "his to be read," he says softly.
they sort his paperwork, his books, his clothes.
"he had a lot of pillows."
"it frightened him to have the room behind him. He slept closest to the wall and had pillows stacked behind him, to keep himself walled in."
"that's weird."
"it let him sleep."
"he had a lot of pillows."
"it frightened him to have the room behind him. He slept closest to the wall and had pillows stacked behind him, to keep himself walled in."
"that's weird."
"it let him sleep."
the pillow on the outside has an impression in it, like it, too, is regularly slept on. she doesn't point this out.
she finds in the bedside cabinet a spare glasses chain, like the secretary has to keep his reading glasses around his neck. her father didn't wear glasses.
she finds in the bedside cabinet a spare glasses chain, like the secretary has to keep his reading glasses around his neck. her father didn't wear glasses.
she doesn't mention that, either.
she goes through the photographs at the foot of her father's wardrobe. all of them are of him as a young man, laughing at parties, with her mother, with friends, with family.
there are a handful of wedding photos, loose and not put into an album.
there are a handful of wedding photos, loose and not put into an album.
in all of them, her father seems stiff and serious, without the smile he had in the earliest ones.
she sees photograph of her father as a child, but none from after the war, until she opens an address book and a single photo falls out - one of the secretary in sailor's whites.
she sees photograph of her father as a child, but none from after the war, until she opens an address book and a single photo falls out - one of the secretary in sailor's whites.
"you were a sailor?"
"merchant navy, til the war. toward the end of my enlistment i had a very bad head injury among other things. i recovered after some time, but my vision was quite bad afterward. your father and I were in the same hospital here."
"merchant navy, til the war. toward the end of my enlistment i had a very bad head injury among other things. i recovered after some time, but my vision was quite bad afterward. your father and I were in the same hospital here."
"so he kept a photo of you in his address book."
"things are misfiled from time to time."
"top drawer of his desk. Close to hand."
the secretary is silent. "as i said," he says lowly. "things can be misfiled."
"things are misfiled from time to time."
"top drawer of his desk. Close to hand."
the secretary is silent. "as i said," he says lowly. "things can be misfiled."
they go through the rest of his things. she's going to sell the house, she says, and the secretary says that sounds like a very sensible idea.
when she wakes in the middle of the night, she finds the secretary sitting beside the fire downstairs, staring into it. he's drinking.
when she wakes in the middle of the night, she finds the secretary sitting beside the fire downstairs, staring into it. he's drinking.
"did my father drink?"
he doesn't look up. "no. he was frightened of cirrhosis - when he was shot in the gut, the bullet damaged his liver. he didn't want to risk it."
"you drank for him."
"more than i ought."
he doesn't look up. "no. he was frightened of cirrhosis - when he was shot in the gut, the bullet damaged his liver. he didn't want to risk it."
"you drank for him."
"more than i ought."
"what will you do? now he's dead?"
"i don't know."
"be secretary for someone else?"
"i don't know. perhaps."
"I'd hire you if i had work for you."
"kind of you to say."
"i don't know."
"be secretary for someone else?"
"i don't know. perhaps."
"I'd hire you if i had work for you."
"kind of you to say."
"I've never been married."
"me neither."
"but you, um. you and him."
the secretary glances at her, his face tight, his teeth gritted.
"is that why he left my mother? bc he was bent?"
"no."
"me neither."
"but you, um. you and him."
the secretary glances at her, his face tight, his teeth gritted.
"is that why he left my mother? bc he was bent?"
"no."
"there's no reason you can't tell me. i won't tell anyone."
"your father was a very forgiving man. he was nervous, and other people frightened him at times but he never blamed them, even when they hurt him, or hurt each other. he liked to think of the best in people."
"your father was a very forgiving man. he was nervous, and other people frightened him at times but he never blamed them, even when they hurt him, or hurt each other. he liked to think of the best in people."
"what was he forgiving of?"
"everything. insult. injury. worse. i wasn't. he would give me very strict instructions when he was having a disagreement with a publisher or similar, to ensure i passed on his good will and not my irritation."
"everything. insult. injury. worse. i wasn't. he would give me very strict instructions when he was having a disagreement with a publisher or similar, to ensure i passed on his good will and not my irritation."
"he never loved my mother?"
"he liked her. they were good friends, before they were married. his parents organised the engagement. your mother loved him, and he was frank with her, but she married him anyway."
"so what went wrong?"
"he liked her. they were good friends, before they were married. his parents organised the engagement. your mother loved him, and he was frank with her, but she married him anyway."
"so what went wrong?"
"your mother never told you?"
"no."
"you would have to ask her. your father wouldn't want me to tell you on her behalf."
"he's dead."
"yes," he whispers. "yes, i know. You needn't keep repeating it."
"no."
"you would have to ask her. your father wouldn't want me to tell you on her behalf."
"he's dead."
"yes," he whispers. "yes, i know. You needn't keep repeating it."
"you're grieving."
"i am. you would too if you'd known him."
"whose fault is that?"
the secretary closes his eyes, silent for a few seconds, and then he drains his glass.
"tell me."
"he forgave everything ever done to him. to dredge anything up would be to go against that."
"i am. you would too if you'd known him."
"whose fault is that?"
the secretary closes his eyes, silent for a few seconds, and then he drains his glass.
"tell me."
"he forgave everything ever done to him. to dredge anything up would be to go against that."
"my mother hurt him?"
"yes."
"how?"
"you should ask her."
"she said she never did anything wrong. that she was a good wife, a loving wife, that he still walked out."
the secretary's knuckles are white on the glass. his jaw tenses. he grunts non comittally.
"yes."
"how?"
"you should ask her."
"she said she never did anything wrong. that she was a good wife, a loving wife, that he still walked out."
the secretary's knuckles are white on the glass. his jaw tenses. he grunts non comittally.
"she's a good person, my mother. she cares about people. she helps people. she's kind. she's a good person."
"your father thought so."
"because he forgave her."
"yes."
"you don't."
"no. never."
"your father thought so."
"because he forgave her."
"yes."
"you don't."
"no. never."
"why's it your business what my father did and didn't forgive?"
"because i kept and do keep his confidences. and even when i disagreed with something he wished it didn't mean I had the right to overrule him. that's what a true marriage should be, i think."
"because i kept and do keep his confidences. and even when i disagreed with something he wished it didn't mean I had the right to overrule him. that's what a true marriage should be, i think."
the secretary's voice remains quiet but hard, and he speaks sharply. he's staring into the fire and not at her.
her lip is trembling, she realises, her hands tightened in fists at her sides. she feels sick.
when she speaks, she whispers: "what did she do to him?"
her lip is trembling, she realises, her hands tightened in fists at her sides. she feels sick.
when she speaks, she whispers: "what did she do to him?"
"is that why he was so scared of everything? what she did?"
the secretary hesitates. "I expect it contributed. he was... not well. he had no friends he thought would understand except me. arrived on my doorstep distraught."
"my father?"
"it made me very weak to see him cry."
the secretary hesitates. "I expect it contributed. he was... not well. he had no friends he thought would understand except me. arrived on my doorstep distraught."
"my father?"
"it made me very weak to see him cry."
"he cry often?"
"not usually. never in hospital. never... in the day. but he'd wake sometimes, from nightmares. and sob. the war changed him, made him more fragile so that other things cut him even deeper than they would have"
"she cut him?"
"not usually. never in hospital. never... in the day. but he'd wake sometimes, from nightmares. and sob. the war changed him, made him more fragile so that other things cut him even deeper than they would have"
"she cut him?"
"no," the secretary says, almost impatiently. "no, it was... he did regret not knowing you, you know. i don't know if it should please you to know that or not, but he did regret it. he wrote under a pseudonym. dedicated all his books to you. he hoped that would be something."
"not enough."
"no. but something. I tried to get him to keep the letters he started to you at times but he always burned them. they were never right, and he would always say nothing for fear or saying the wrong thing if he spoke at all."
"no. but something. I tried to get him to keep the letters he started to you at times but he always burned them. they were never right, and he would always say nothing for fear or saying the wrong thing if he spoke at all."
"don't tell me he loved me."
"no. i didn't: i wouldn't. but he knew that he had a duty to you that he never fulfilled, and he did regret that."
"you tried to get him to write me?"
"i encouraged him when he couldn't steel himself to."
"he was scared of me?"
"i think so."
"no. i didn't: i wouldn't. but he knew that he had a duty to you that he never fulfilled, and he did regret that."
"you tried to get him to write me?"
"i encouraged him when he couldn't steel himself to."
"he was scared of me?"
"i think so."
"why, 'cause he was scared I'd be like him, or because he was scared of my potential, or some psycho babble like that?"
the secretary mutely shook his head.
"tell me."
he inhaled slowly, but the exhale was ragged.
the secretary mutely shook his head.
"tell me."
he inhaled slowly, but the exhale was ragged.
"did your mother know," he asked quietly, "that your father had me? that he had a secretary?"
"i... i don't know. why would it matter?"
"i don't think she expected anyone could tell you if you came over here. how old are you now?"
"twenty-one."
"i... i don't know. why would it matter?"
"i don't think she expected anyone could tell you if you came over here. how old are you now?"
"twenty-one."
"your father... was inclined to men."
"to you."
"to men. me included. and your mother, she knew that, but she thought... she hoped, that that might change. that time together would bring them closer. would make him love her enough to..."
"to you."
"to men. me included. and your mother, she knew that, but she thought... she hoped, that that might change. that time together would bring them closer. would make him love her enough to..."
"to what?"
"you are familiar with the machinations of the marriage bed?"
"jesus," she says, and takes the gin bottle off him, pours herself her own measure.
"he didn't... he couldn't. with her."
she stares at the gin in her glass.
"you are familiar with the machinations of the marriage bed?"
"jesus," she says, and takes the gin bottle off him, pours herself her own measure.
"he didn't... he couldn't. with her."
she stares at the gin in her glass.
"so he's not my father," she says slowly. "that's-- that's what hurt him so badly? that she cheated on him when... why the hell would he care? if they weren't..."
the secretary swallows. sips his drink.
"no," he says achingly. "no, he was your father."
the secretary swallows. sips his drink.
"no," he says achingly. "no, he was your father."
"so he..."
"he never drank with me, your father. he was... he was frightened of cirrhosis, yes, his tolerance for alcohol was shot after the war. but he did still drink a little. sometimes in moderation."
"he never drank with me, your father. he was... he was frightened of cirrhosis, yes, his tolerance for alcohol was shot after the war. but he did still drink a little. sometimes in moderation."
the pit in her stomach was twisted even tighter.
"he used to be such a heavy sleeper," the secretary murmured. "even after the war, he... it used to annoy me, side by side in our rows of recovery beds. the nurses could never wake him up. and that was without drink."
"he used to be such a heavy sleeper," the secretary murmured. "even after the war, he... it used to annoy me, side by side in our rows of recovery beds. the nurses could never wake him up. and that was without drink."
she drained her glass.
"when she told him she was pregnant i think she thought he might be pleased or... she'd wanted a baby for a very long time, which he used to tell me is only natural. if he was sleeping, after all, it might as well not have happened. just the necessary."
"when she told him she was pregnant i think she thought he might be pleased or... she'd wanted a baby for a very long time, which he used to tell me is only natural. if he was sleeping, after all, it might as well not have happened. just the necessary."
"but that's... that's not--"
"no. when she first told him, he thought he knew even then but he asked, sort of. desperately. asked who the father might be. promised to never breathe a word. and when she said, forcing joy, that he was being silly, that he was the father..."
"no. when she first told him, he thought he knew even then but he asked, sort of. desperately. asked who the father might be. promised to never breathe a word. and when she said, forcing joy, that he was being silly, that he was the father..."
he tapped his fingers against the edge of his glass, the gin rippling inside.
"when i say he was distraught, he was... I had seen men half blown to pieces who didn't sob the way he did on my doorstep. clutched at me like a babe til i brought him inside."
"when i say he was distraught, he was... I had seen men half blown to pieces who didn't sob the way he did on my doorstep. clutched at me like a babe til i brought him inside."
"you're lying."
"you must understand he tried very hard to forget that you had been borne of... he wanted to forget. to forgive - especially because you'd never done anything wrong. but it's not quite so simple as that."
"you must understand he tried very hard to forget that you had been borne of... he wanted to forget. to forgive - especially because you'd never done anything wrong. but it's not quite so simple as that."
"you're lying," she said again
"you think louder repetition makes something true?"
"my mother would never do something like that."
"your father never expected it either." she wanted to hit him, but there was something incredibly bitter, injured, in his voice.
"you think louder repetition makes something true?"
"my mother would never do something like that."
"your father never expected it either." she wanted to hit him, but there was something incredibly bitter, injured, in his voice.
the secretary's face remained relatively blank, except for a tension in it, but his hand was clenched into a fist.
"you saw the pillows on his bed."
"yeah."
"he was... he was okay, some nights. other nights even to touch me by accident would send him spiralling."
"you saw the pillows on his bed."
"yeah."
"he was... he was okay, some nights. other nights even to touch me by accident would send him spiralling."
"you never touched each other?"
"we did. always with the lights on, always where he could see me. i never crept up on him, never looked over his shoulder. no surprises: keen, clear scheduling. i let him initiate what he wanted."
"we did. always with the lights on, always where he could see me. i never crept up on him, never looked over his shoulder. no surprises: keen, clear scheduling. i let him initiate what he wanted."
"so you let him control everything?"
he laughed, breathlessly, his voice strained. "no," he whispered. "you have to understand that your father's domain was incredibly small - the walls of this house and no further."
he laughed, breathlessly, his voice strained. "no," he whispered. "you have to understand that your father's domain was incredibly small - the walls of this house and no further."
she stared at him.
"it hurt me sometimes when I couldn't... get him a birthday cake without warning him or hug him from behind. kiss him without making sure he saw me coming. but that was... it would have been harder to hurt him and know I'd done so."
"it hurt me sometimes when I couldn't... get him a birthday cake without warning him or hug him from behind. kiss him without making sure he saw me coming. but that was... it would have been harder to hurt him and know I'd done so."
she sank heavily down into the seat beside him. she felt like crying, but the tears wouldn't come.
"he forgave her? my mother?"
"he tried to. he said she was trying to do best by all involved. but only because I'd threaten to him if he said it was his fault."
"he forgave her? my mother?"
"he tried to. he said she was trying to do best by all involved. but only because I'd threaten to him if he said it was his fault."
"you ever do that? hit him?"
"no," the secretary said, putting his head in his hands. "no, i... i couldn't if i tried. and he knew that, he knew that i... that i was as soft as he was. softer, really."
"no," the secretary said, putting his head in his hands. "no, i... i couldn't if i tried. and he knew that, he knew that i... that i was as soft as he was. softer, really."
she sat still in her seat for what felt like a long time. when he held out his hand for the bottle, she passed it back, watched him pour.
she felt numb and tired and angry and... too much.
she thought about her mother, grimly saying the inheritance was hers.
she felt numb and tired and angry and... too much.
she thought about her mother, grimly saying the inheritance was hers.
"what would you do?" she asked. "if you were me?"
the secretary glanced at her. "if i was a 21 year old girl?"
"yeah."
"marry the man I loved," he said. his eyes shone, but he didn't cry.
she felt stupid for asking. "sorry," she said.
"me too," he murmured.
the secretary glanced at her. "if i was a 21 year old girl?"
"yeah."
"marry the man I loved," he said. his eyes shone, but he didn't cry.
she felt stupid for asking. "sorry," she said.
"me too," he murmured.
"what will you do now?" she asked, aware that she'd asked before.
"help you," he said. "once all this is done with, uh... he knew that he was ill, you know, that he was dying. i was given very specific instructions."
"help you," he said. "once all this is done with, uh... he knew that he was ill, you know, that he was dying. i was given very specific instructions."
"not to tell me?"
"no. no he didn't... he didn't mention that specifically, mention you. he wanted to leave everything to his lawyer to sort out, for me to take what was mine, was ours, and leave the rest for you."
"no. no he didn't... he didn't mention that specifically, mention you. he wanted to leave everything to his lawyer to sort out, for me to take what was mine, was ours, and leave the rest for you."
"you stayed?"
"i wanted to meet you. for his sake, I wanted to... oh, i don't know. i wanted to provide some sort of solace or explanation. i thought you'd have different questions."
"like what?"
he sighed, smiled ruefully. "about who he was. what he was like."
"i wanted to meet you. for his sake, I wanted to... oh, i don't know. i wanted to provide some sort of solace or explanation. i thought you'd have different questions."
"like what?"
he sighed, smiled ruefully. "about who he was. what he was like."
"what were his instructions?"
"to retire by a beach somewhere. i like the sea, I always did. to get a boat, if I could. he used to want to holiday at a seaside somewhere but could never... he had difficulty leaving the house."
"to retire by a beach somewhere. i like the sea, I always did. to get a boat, if I could. he used to want to holiday at a seaside somewhere but could never... he had difficulty leaving the house."
"that's it? just... just be by the sea?"
"well, he wanted me to be happy, but he knows I've never responded well to vague instructions. the sea was a good start, in his eyes. he told me to kiss some handsome sailors on his behalf, if i could wrangle them. Read good books."
"well, he wanted me to be happy, but he knows I've never responded well to vague instructions. the sea was a good start, in his eyes. he told me to kiss some handsome sailors on his behalf, if i could wrangle them. Read good books."
"his?"
"no. no i never... i never much liked his books. they're very good, but they're murder mysteries. always gave me the willies, couldn't understand how he wrote them."
"BOOKS scare you?"
he softly laughed.
"no. no i never... i never much liked his books. they're very good, but they're murder mysteries. always gave me the willies, couldn't understand how he wrote them."
"BOOKS scare you?"
he softly laughed.
"his do," the secretary murmured. "he was so often in such terrible fear. it made him tremendously good at depicting it. evoking it. he used to..." he laughed breathlessly. "he used to censor passages before he'd let me read them."
"will you be happy?" she asked in a very small voice. "doing that?"
"I'll try," he said softly. "I always tried to do as he told me if I could. what about you? what will you do?"
"I don't know." she leaned back in the armchair. "read his books, i guess. that's a good start."
"I'll try," he said softly. "I always tried to do as he told me if I could. what about you? what will you do?"
"I don't know." she leaned back in the armchair. "read his books, i guess. that's a good start."
"he'd like that. for you to read his books. he used to... he used to wonder sometimes if you would."
"will you give me your address?"
"hm?"
"of the, um. where ever you live. at the seaside. if i could write to you, or just... visit. sometimes."
"will you give me your address?"
"hm?"
"of the, um. where ever you live. at the seaside. if i could write to you, or just... visit. sometimes."
he turned to look at her, lips parted, his gaze on her face. it was as unreadable as most of his expressions.
"if that's," she said waveringly, "okay--"
"if that's," she said waveringly, "okay--"
"if you want. yes. but you must... you must ask me about him. you must let me tell you about him. he wanted for you to know him, and I'm still here, I can... its not too late for that."
"its not enough," she said.
"no," he agreed. "but it's something."
"its not enough," she said.
"no," he agreed. "but it's something."
she took in a shaky, slow breath through her mouth. stared into the fire.
she asked a question.
he answered.
they talked long into the night.
"you said you'd keep his confidences," she murmured.
"part of your inheritance," he said. "they're your confidences now."
she asked a question.
he answered.
they talked long into the night.
"you said you'd keep his confidences," she murmured.
"part of your inheritance," he said. "they're your confidences now."
the sun rose, and peach-stained light shone through the windows.
when she woke from bed, many hours later, she picked up the first of her father's books.
"For my daughter. May she never live as I did."
wiping her eyes, she turned the first page, and read.
FIN.
when she woke from bed, many hours later, she picked up the first of her father's books.
"For my daughter. May she never live as I did."
wiping her eyes, she turned the first page, and read.
FIN.
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my tip jar: https://ko-fi.com/johannesevans
please feel free to share and RT. I write books and I have other serials and short stories you can read online, just check my pinned!I do other tweet stories too so follow me for those!
my tip jar: https://ko-fi.com/johannesevans
Also, if you're in the mood for ANOTHER short story about gay men and the grieving process but with a spooky aspect, I have a full short story here, Letters To The Dead: https://link.medium.com/Alq5PiVgTcb
@threadreaderapp unroll please
And link to read/share on Tumblr, if that's better for you: https://johannesevans.tumblr.com/post/639787163005976576/twitter-short-story
This really blew up! If you like devoted autistic secretaries (I have a type 
), my book Heart of Stone is a very fluffy slow-burn between a vampire and his secretary!
I have books available on Smashwords and Amazon:
https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/JohannesEvans
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08F2VKDTG/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=Heart+of+Stone+By+Johannes+T.+Evans&qid=1596224499&sr=8-1
If you like devoted autistic secretaries (I have a type ), my book Heart of Stone is a very fluffy slow-burn between a vampire and his secretary!I have books available on Smashwords and Amazon:
https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/JohannesEvans
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08F2VKDTG/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=Heart+of+Stone+By+Johannes+T.+Evans&qid=1596224499&sr=8-1
