Page 62 of My Wife
He grunts.
The detail sticks with me until after I say goodnight to KJ, promising cake the following day.
He asks,For breakfast?
I laugh. “Not for breakfast. After a wholesome lunch.”
The song “Tomorrow” from Annie comes to mind and how when growing up I yearned for the hope the next day would bring and that my lousy situation would change.
KJ doesn’t have it that bad, but it could be better. For instance, his dad could smile from time to time.
When I return to the kitchen, locked and loaded with admonishment, I find The Beast wearing an apron.
I squawk a laugh and then cover my mouth. I don’t think KJ would hear me shriek, but because he hasn’t had proper hearing tests done, in case he does, I don’t want to scare him.
“That is a look,” I say.
“You’re a good cook.”
Shocked, I tuck my chin. “You didn’t eat the fennel.”
“I never said I didn’t like it.”
I remind myself that he did say he didn’t like me.
“Then why didn’t you eat it?”
The corner of his lip hitches.
“To annoy me?”
He shrugs.
“You’re maladjusted or a twelve-year-old boy who never learned how to interact with girls short of pulling their pigtails.”
“No, that would be my brother.”
“So you’re saying that you’re suave with the ladies?”
He snorts a laugh and his phone beeps. He continues to disregard it. The guy has major cell phone control. When I get a message or notification and ignore it, my blood pressure reading goes up incrementally. I can feel it.
He says, “You’re also really good with the kid.”
I’m used to surly Liam and this version of him makes me perspire. I take my sweater off, leaving my camisole underneath, put my apron back on, and start preparing the icing so it’s ready for when the cake cools.
After a minute, I ask, “Is this your way of asking me to babysit?” I practically already do.
He shifts from foot to foot. “Things with Mrs. Kirby didn’t work out.”
“You mean you scared her away?”
Liam watches me for a long moment and then says, “What if I don’t want to wait for tomorrow for cake?”
“It takes a while to bake and then has to cool. Help me with this.” I gesture to the bowl of frosting.
He starts beating it with the spoon.
“Don’t manhandle it.”
