Page 19 of Call Me Mrs. Taylor

“What am I thinking?”

“You’re hungry.”

The deep rumble of his chuckle makes me warm all over.

“I could eat, actually.”

“I know. So how about I go downstairs and fix you something?”

“You serious?”

“Of course. Why do you sound so surprised?”

I know why. It’s because it’s never this easy.

Men my age complain all the time about how disappointing we women are because we don’t do shit like make them sandwiches after sex. Apparently, that’s both a lost art and a litmus test for how much we give a fuck about them.

And I think they’re kind of right—we reallydon’tgive a fuck about them. But why should we? They’re useless now. They don’t go off to war, they don’t build houses, they don’t grow crops or raise animals. They don’t hunt. They don’t provide. They barely even fuck you worth a damn.

Ace got that last one right, at least, so ifhewants a sandwich, I’ll be on my Panera today.

He leans up to peck my lips. “I appreciate you.”

I don’t respond, instead taking my time getting out of his bed and sliding my dress back over my body.

I feel his eyes on me, watching every movement.

“Mmm,” he hums as I bend to pick up my panties.

I smile, but I say nothing.

Instead, I go to his kitchen, taking a quick scan before I get to work.

It’s too clean.

There’s normal, ‘I like things tidy’ clean, and then there’s ‘nobody really lives here’ clean. No mismatched dish towels, no mail stacked up on the counters, no random magnets on the fridge, not even a stray grocery bag.

Everything is sleek. Stainless steel appliances, dark gray cabinets, black granite countertops. No signs of a woman’s touch, which is for the best, because I don’t want my nervous system activated after finally feeling calm again.

I look for pictures, but there are none. It’s so…cold. It’s like a model home—perfect, but empty.

Which means I fit perfectly inside of it.

I open the fridge and scan its contents, finding the usual fare…eggs, chicken, deli meat, milk, a couple of styrofoam takeout cartons. Beer, of course.

He’s such a man.

I run my fingers over the cool shelves, wondering what it will look like when I move in. I’ll stock the fridge with fresh fruit and vegetables and those cute little bento boxes, which I’ll fill with lunch so that when he goes to work, everybody will know his woman takes care of him.

He’ll appreciate that about me.

I grab what I need and set everything on the sleek black counter. I could slap something together, but I don’t. I take my time.

I toast the bread to a warm crisp. Not too crunchy, though. Ace has beautiful teeth. Gotta protect those. I layer the honey roasted turkey carefully, then spread the avocado across the meat, topping it with a slice of cheddar cheese. I add a drizzle of spicy mayo, a sprinkle of black pepper, top it with the other slices of bread, and cut it diagonally, because I already know that’s how Ace likes it. I’ve seen him eat sandwiches before.

This is what our life will be like. He’ll sit at the kitchen table after a long day at work, unwinding while I rub his shoulders and tell him about my day. I can see my slippers sitting next to his by the door, my scent clinging to his sheets, my things blending seamlessly with his.

I haven’t imagined our wedding yet. I don’t wanna get ahead of myself, after all. But that’s the next logical step.

---