Page 72 of My Wife
Mr. Meanie: What’s with all the sedimentary references?
Me: Always bringing it back to your abs, huh? Looking at your impeccably sculpted abdominal muscles would have the opposite effect of making me drowsy.
I just glitched. Why on earth did I text that? Maybe I am tired. I should shut this down now. Go to sleep. The three little dots indicate he’s replying. Then they disappear. Reappear.
Whoever was posing at Liam realized I was on to them and ghosted.
I tuck back under the covers when my phone beeps. Instead of a message, an image comes through in our thread.
It’s a selfie of Liam, shirt lifted, abs on display. I drool a little and I’m not even asleep yet. But his finger points at the side just below his ribs. I angle my phone and zoom in to see a little freckle that looks like a tiny whale shooting a spume out of its blowhole.
In a word, it’s adorable. It also matches many of the abs pics on #MrDarcysAbs. But Liam is anything but adorable. He’s a brooding grouser whose blue-gray eyes sometimes look like the sky in the morning and at others, they’re deep like the dusk.
And when they land on me, there’s something else, a spark there that I don’t usually see—it’s there in the photo on my phone. A swizzly feeling warms me through.
I won’t be getting any sleep tonight.
* * *
The morning sunmakes the snowy tops of the trees sparkle. I’m operating on a severe coffee deficit when I meet Mrs. Kirby, the woman who runs a sewing and alternation studio downstairs in the Old Mill building, outside the elevator.
“Doing the walk of shame, eh?” she asks.
Wondering if I misheard, I tap the side of my head like I did the car dashboard earlier when the heat wouldn’t come on. It was chilly this morning.
I point to the elevator. “How do you figure that? I’m going upstairs.”
Her harrumph reminds me of Liam. Could they be related?
“I’ll have you know that I’m Liam’s personal assistant.” And nanny. He’s been at away games and we didn’t quite go over the details. Should’ve when we were messaging the other night instead of discussing his abs.
When we text, the animosity cools and flirtation, I think, takes its place. But why can’t he be more friendly in person? Though, the photo of his abs was, ahem, quite friendly.
In the polished reflection of the elevator doors, I catch my blurry image, looking a little windswept and pink-cheeked.
“It used to be so quiet upstairs. Now there’s just stomping.”
“Dancing.” KJ loves impromptu dance parties.
“Yelling.”
“Singing.” The little boy doesn’t mind that I’m perpetually off-key. Of course, he can feel the music and I sign the words. It’s a lot of fun.
She sniffs with disapproval. “Parties.”
“Family life.” In some ways, I guess I have been nannying all along.
Just then, the double glass doors to the building open, and Liam jogs in, shirtless, and with KJ in a special kind of backpack. The kid bobbles along, an oversized Knights knit hat flopping on top of his blond hair. He grins and waves wildly when he spots me.
I wave back, but my jaw lowers and I blink, honing in on his father’s abs. I mean the whale freckle, for identification purposes.
Liam’s voice, a low rumble because of course he’s not out of breath after running who knows how far with fifty pounds on his back, says, “Good morning, Jessica.”
I clear my throat and open my mouth, but words don’t come. Instead, I sign my greeting.
We get in the elevator and over my shoulder, to Mrs. Kirby, I say, “It won’t happen again.”
But I’m not sure whether I’m referring to the noise complaint or me ogling my boss’s impressive six-pack.
