Page 36 of My Wife
“I could take him to the children’s museum in Omaha, out for a wholesome lunch, and teach him how to put on his shoes. He’s still a bit young to learn how to tie them.”
Or I could run. My instincts urge me to make a hasty retreat.
The child signs that he wants to show me one of his toys and I reply that I’ll be right there. First, I have to talk to his dad.
But he takes my hand and toddles down the hall into what I presume is his bedroom—or the guest room. With a glance over my shoulder, I catch Liam watching me carefully.
The queen-sized bed is unmade and the décor is decidedly not child-friendly with slippery refinished floors, a brick wall, and a stack of teetering moving boxes.
By the door is a heap of blankets and a pillow like he lets a hobo sleep in here with the little boy.
I don’t want to pry because none of this is my business. I’m here to help with professional tasks, but I cannot figure out what’s going on. Okay, and as a child prodigy at adapting to new situations, I’m unduly curious.
This place is huge, so they could be having renovations and the father and son are staying in here while workers are remodeling their rooms. Or the kid is only here temporarily, or—I don’t know what, but it’s echoey and chilly. Kind of lonesome too.
The little boy and I sign while he shows me his few toys. His vocabulary is fairly limited, but he tells me that he’s three, so it’s not unusual. He has a little army man, a truck, Legos—which may or may not be age-appropriate considering they’re a choking hazard—and a pet crab.
We decide to build the crab a house with Legos. Inspired, he decides to make a whole town for the crab. I tell him I’m going to talk to his dad for a few minutes and make him promise no monkeying around.
The corner of his mouth lifts slightly. I glimpse a picture of myself in him—unsure what was happening in my life, but not counting on anything good.
I find Liam in the living room tidying up his books. For someone who was on his way out the door, he seems to be dawdling, like he’s avoiding something.
When he glances over his shoulder at me, fire blazes through my veins, whether because the man is incorrigible or for another reason—if that’s the case, I’d like to mark myself as not available. I’m definitely not interested in long, lingering looks or catching the eye of anyone, least of all a tall, fit, and handsome guy like Mr. Meanie. No way do I have a sudden and keen interest in strong, defined shoulders.
“You haven’t run away yet.” His voice is a low rumble.
“Why would I do that?”
He grunts and pours himself a cup of coffee. To his credit, it smells good and not like burned hair mixed with vinegar—Sorsha had a knack for scalding it even when using an instant plastic K-cup.
I watch Liam carefully, disturbingly intrigued by the contrast between how obnoxious he is and the gracefully powerful way he moves. It sends a swizzly feeling through me. One I will ignore now and forevermore.
He doesn’t offer me a coffee and I could use a large right now.
“Jessica, let me make one thing clear?—”
“Jess,” I correct.
“I didn’t ask for help, Jessica.”
My smile wavers. “Of course not.”
“I don’t want help.”
“But Cara?—”
“Arsenault is not the boss of me,” he counters like a fifth-grader.
“But your coach?—”
“Just named me captain and with that comes new responsibilities.” He seems to relent slightly.
“It does seem like you have your hands full.”
“My hands are fine and that’s none of your concern.” He sets the mug down on the counter with unnecessary force.
I jump, startled. However, I’ve dealt with people like him and worse, so I rally, lengthening my spine and pressing my shoulders back. After all, I can’t very well take himthatseriously when his socks don’t match.
