Page 116 of The Homemaker
I think about it for a few seconds. “Yes.”
“Can I ask what happened in your past? Is this about your friend who died? And can I ask how Murphy, yourboss’s daughter’s fiancé,knows more about your past than I do?” He peers over his shoulder at me.
“My fiancé died, not my friend.” I give it a moment tosink in. When Callen’s gaze flits from the mug back to me, I continue. “I needed to escape life. So I rented a place not far from here. Murphy was the owner, the vacation rental host.”
I observe Callen and the subtle shifts in his expression. The details don’t matter, but I’m not sure he’ll believe that.
“Were the two of youcloseduring your stay?”
I sip my tea then return my attention to the fireplace before answering with a tiny nod.
“How close?”
I don’t answer.
“Because the look he gave me earlier made me feel like an outsider, like I wasn’t the guy who was supposed to be in your bed.”
“I’m not sleeping with him,” I say as if parsing hairs at this point really matters.
“But you want to?”
“Callen …”
“It’s a simple question, Alice. Do you want to fuck another woman’s fiancé?”
I flinch.
“Wow.” He stands, rubbing his temples. “If you have to think about that answer, then I have mine.”
“Callen—”
He holds out a flat hand and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry for your loss years ago, and for what triggered you tonight. If you ask me to stay, then I’ll stay. But if you want me to go, then I will. And I don’t have to come back, if you’re ready for whatever this is to end.”
I don’t know what this is.
I don’t know what I’m doing.
I don’t know who I am.
Callen walks past the sofa then stops and leans over theback of it, pressing his lips to the top of my head before whispering, “You have my number.”
The next morning, I wake at my usual five o’clock time, and I go through the motions. Meditate. Jog around the lake. Shower. Breakfast.
I arrive at the main house just before seven. Exchange shoes. Tie my apron. Smooth a hand along my ponytail. I cling to routine like my life depends on it. But my steps halt when two tired eyes meet mine.
Murphy slowly stands from a stool at the kitchen island. His hair is chaotic like it’s been a long night. Wrinkled white T-shirt. Dark jeans. No shoes.
I open my mouth to speak, but he holds a finger to his lips before jerking his head to the right. After a second, I wordlessly follow him to the basement stairs. We take a sharp right at the bottom until we reach the bedroom at the end of the hallway. Sometimes Vera comes down here to hide from Hunter. She says it’s the most quiet room in the house.
Murphy closes the door after I step past it.
I turn to face him, wringing my hands together. “How is Mr. Morrison?”
“Are you okay?” Murphy asks like my question doesn’t matter. The anguish on his face hits me like a twenty-foot wave coming onto shore.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
He pushes off the door.
