Page 71 of Hot Shot

I sigh again, reaching for the door, but Wilder beats me to it and pulls it open, holding it for me. Getting custody of Cricket is a whole process. Despite Wilder being her biological father, Ashley made her parents standby guardians when she had her will drawn up, granting them guardianship in the event of her inability to care for Cricket. And despite the court date being a formality at this point, we don’t want to upend Cricket’s life any more than we already have. Nor do we want to piss off Patty and Paul, since they could make our lives very difficult if they decided to. But the papers have been filed, and soon enough we’ll have a court date, plead our case, and Cricket will be ours. His.

Whatever.

I hurry to the kitchen to stir the simmering fricassee, the room filled with the scent of the creamy garlic sauce and chicken. My stomach rumbles, mouth watering.

Wilder hums from behind me, and I jump, not realizing he’s so close. He’s peering over my shoulder, his hand absently fingering the curve of my waist. The simple touch sparks an overwhelming, vital awareness—I struggle against the impulse to lean into his solid chest and arch my back to press my backside into his hips.

Though Davis and I never technically got married, I performed all the duties of a traditional wife around the house. Well, most of them—we had a maid, which I’d never say no to. But I insisted on cooking, in part because I was bored and in part because I genuinely enjoy it. How many nights did I stand in my old kitchen alone, chopping up vegetables and sipping wine while I tended to pots on the stove? How many times did Davis come home to comment on my handiwork with gladness and thankful praise? Too many to count. He’d even looked over my shoulder just like this and hummed approval.

Not once did I experience the feral pleasure of that rumbling sound from the back of Wilder’s throat. Gooseflesh springs down my arms and neck, my nipples tightening to peaks. I stare at the creamy sauce and recite the sevens multiplication table, because third grade math is the pinnacle of my skills in the subject.

“Smells good,” Wilder rasps, the words brushing the curve of my neck before he steps back. His fingertips linger, sliding down my hip before disappearing. “Want a beer?”

“Sure,” I answer, not trusting myself to utter anything but that single word.

I hate that he walked away. I hate that I hate it. Hate myself for wishing he’d pressed that hot mouth of his to my shoulder, flipped up my skirt, and fucked me deep and hard and thoroughly against the steaming stove. But I do. I still love the boy I left behind all those years ago, even if I don’t know the man he’s become. My body knows him. It remembers. In fact, it whispers to me that I know him better than I’d like to admit. I’ve seen him practice patience and understanding with his daughter. I’ve seen him sacrifice. I’ve seen him do the right thing over and over again in just these few days.

Ugh, it’s so hot, my will slips, crumbling like sand. I’ve been trying to pat it back together, but it holds no shape, just slips through my fingers like dust. For a cautious moment, I ask myself—why resist him? He lied to me, yes, but I’m not reallymadabout that anymore. Not likemad-mad. He didn’t do it to trick me or trap me, and he didn’t know how to tell me. I mean, fuck him for not, but also I get it. It’s just more complicated than that. I gave myself over to Davis and came home empty. His world was my world, and when I left, I was reeling and isolated. I don’t trust that I know who I am anymore. And here I am, justweekslater, and I’ve done it again. Fully wifed up. But this time, I’m alegalwife and stepmom, which is worse for me than thelazy hoss cat I was with Davis. So, so much worse, requiring so, so much more of me.

And that’s the real reason I need to stand my ground. I can’t lose myself again. I wonder how much I’ve already let slip away, but banish the thought when Wilder sets my beer on the counter.

“How was your first week of school?” he asks gently, moving around the kitchen gathering serving dishes when I turn off the stove.

Just like that, I’m smiling and all squishy inside. “Best week ever. Crazy and overwhelming and I feel like I have a billion things to do, but wow. I haven’t felt this accomplished since I graduated college. Is it weird that I really like having lists of things I need to do?”

He chuckles, taking the pot just before I reach for it, tilting it over the serving bowl so I can scoop out the contents. “For you? Not weird at all. I don’t know how you went all those years without them, to be honest.”

“I mean, I had them, but the stakes were very low. Like the lists of books I wanted to read. Recipes I wanted to try. Errands I had to run. None of it feltimportant, you know? Maybe because all of it was for me. Sometimes Davis, if I was planning a trip.”

I take off the lid to the rice and reach for the smaller dish, but he already has a spoon, and this time he scoops. It’s like a dance, the two of us moving around each other, working together without having to speak.

“You know, I keep trying to figure out how he could just leave work for half the year and not get canned.”

I shrug. “His father owns the company. Davis has a title, receives his big, fat paycheck to pad his trust with, and in exchange is responsible for next to nothing.”

“That isso weird,” he says, picking up both bowls before I can get one.

“It’s so weird,” I echo on a laugh, following him to the table where he sets them down. I notice that he’s already gotten us glasses of water that sit next to the places I’d set. He even picked Cricket’s up and put it away, leaving just places for the two of us at the small table in the nook.

Being with Wilder is effortless like that.

We sit, talking as we make our plates.

“I mean, you’d think he’d be an entitled douchebag with that much money and freedom, but honestly, he wasn’t.”

Wilder’s chin dips when he gives me a look.

“What? I mean he wasn’t like, mean or disrespectful or anything.”

“Cass. Think about that for one second.”

My cheeks warm, and I focus on spooning out the saucy goodness onto my rice. “I mean, in the end, yes he did a fucked up thing. But daily? He was never like that. Like, he’s always nice to the waiters and valets and whoever, you know? He’s kind and good. But, yeah. I guess he felt entitled to marry meandfuck Henry for the rest of our lives without telling me. Fair point.”

“God I’m fucking glad you were already married to me. He never could have done it. His plan never would have worked.”

“I mean, assuming you ever told me.”

“I would have told you.”

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