Page 47 of My Wife
Me: I will and it’s going in the trash.
Jessica: 3. If travel outside of Cobbiton or Omaha is required, I need at least a day’s notice so I have time to wash my hair.
I’m not sure what comes over me, but I want to run my fingers through her hair. Find out if it’s as silky as it looks. No, that’s not right. What am I thinking? This woman riles me up and brings out the worst in me. I know I’m being rude, confirming her assumptions that I’m a jerk, but I cannot stop myself.
Jessica: 4. If you know I’m coming over, please save me a cup of coffee.
Me: I’ll make sure it’s from the bottom of the pot and full of grounds.
Jessica: 5. You may not touch my butt.
I wouldn’t even consider it. Well, until now. Her backside comes to mind with a nice curve dropping from her waist.
Shaking my head to rid myself of the stupid, yet sudden juicy desire, I consider my reply. I could tell her to keep that thing away from me if she knows what’s good for her ... or steer this conversation back in the direction of general normalcy, at least when it comes to Jessica. The woman has quirks for days … and has been driving me nuts just as long.
Me: Have your previous employers done that last one? If so, sounds like a lawsuit waiting to happen.
Jessica: Oh my goodness. No! I meant butt.
Jessica: Autocorrect! Bundt. You cannot touch my Bundts. They’re a kind of cake. I make all sorts but specialize in personal-sized Bundt cakes with classic and unique flavors. It’s kind of my thing. The snickerdoodle with cream cheese frosting is everyone’s favorite. Mine too.
Me: In that case, I won’t touch your Bundts.
Jessica: Small claims court is no joke.
Me: Are those all of your rules?
Jessica: No, there are ninety-five more. I’m just getting warmed up.
Me: This is nonsense. Meet me at the Fish Bowl in an hour.
Jessica: Okay, boss.
Me: Mr. Ellis is fine.
Jessica: Is that so? I think Mr. Ellis is grumpy.
Me: I meant that you can refer to me as Mr. Ellis.
She doesn’t respond, leaving me with a strange, vacant feeling that borders on a craving—like when your nutritionist points out that you haven’t had chocolate in over twelve months. If Jessica is smart, she’ll keep her chocolate out of my house.
When I park outside O’Neely’s Fish Bowl, a nearby car honks and I nearly jump out of my skin. I’ve been to this hotspot for fans to watch games and gloat about how they’re the authority on all things hockey dozens of times. I can handle a little attention, but not a lot after today.
I don’t often make appearances here, but figure it’s best to meet Jessica in a public place rather than at home because if the kid sees her, he’s bound to not want to let her go.
As I exit the truck, what I’m feeling is a peculiar kind of anticipation, like I know a candy bar is waiting for me and I can’t wait to tear into it.
I grab a booth table and keep my eyes glued to a game from earlier in the season airing on one of the many televisions. It was against the Titans—my brother’s team. Coach put me in during the second period because Ted’s knee was acting up. I inwardly chuckle, recalling the game because Hendrix and I were so competitive that our skates practically sent up sparks, melting the ice.
Hayden scores a goal, reminding me this was when Valjean faked a shoulder injury. I push the thought from my mind and glance to my right, spotting a brown-eyed beauty all bundled up. Her lips are glossy and smiling. She waves like we’re best friends who haven’t seen each other in years.
Of course it’s Jessica.
If she had a greater sense of self-preservation, she’d have come in here wearing pads and carrying a stick.
Another woman trails behind her, twice her age if not more, eyes alight with what can only be described as hockey fandom lust. When the older woman’s gaze lands on me, it slips for one threatening moment. A subtle shiver runs through me as I imagine her in the paint, on offense, charging me like a bulldog on skates.
Jessica waves her hands like the witch bride she is, and says, “Liam, I’d like you to meet Grandma Dolly.”
