Page 137 of The Homemaker
“You are.”
I jump when his tongue teases between my legs. Then he continues up my body, removing my bra and kissing my breasts.
“It’s nothing a few weeks of nonstop screwing can’t fix.”
I giggle harder.
He kisses along my jaw, his erection sliding between my legs. “Hi,” he whispers, a breath before his lips claim mine.
Epilogue
Murphy
Since it takes a village,
don’t forget to form your village.
Eight Years Later …
“If you touch that,I will cut off your hand,” Alice says, holding a knife when I reach my finger for the bowl of chocolate frosting.
“Don’t cut off Daddy’s hand,” three-year-old Mia says while she and her five-year-old sister Sophie make friendship bracelets at the kitchen table.
“Then he needs to stay out of the frosting. It’s for Cam’s birthday cake.”
“You’re so sassy,” I whisper in Alice’s ear before sucking her earlobe between myteeth.
Her shoulder jumps. “Stop!” She laughs, cutting pineapple for the fruit kabobs Cam loves.
While we’ve made this our home and had two beautiful girls, Alice and I have always held our breath, praying that the Becketts don’t move. Not only have we become close to Rose and Jonathan, we’ve formed lifelong bonds with Cameron and their girls. Our families have vacationed together. I play golf with Jonathan. And Rose and Alice are on a pickleball team at the rec center.
Jonathan sells life insurance, and Rose is a landscape architect who doesn’t enjoy cooking anything that can’t be thrown on the grill or tossed into a Crock-Pot. So Cameron thinks Alice is the best neighbor ever because she bakes and cooks all the time. Rose jokes that she’s going to divorce Jonathan and marry Alice.
“I’ll be in the garage,” I say.
“Save some wood for me,” Alice smirks.
Someday, our girls are going to realize their mom’s idea of wood and my woodturning hobby are two totally different things.
“I always do,” I say, filling a glass with sun tea before heading to the garage.
Since my art sells easily and quickly at several local galleries and shops, and I still do freelance technical writing, I make enough money to pay for a full-time homemaker who wears house dresses. However, I prefer her barefoot, traipsing through the grass yard to and from her garden.
No ponytail.
Wavy auburn hair flowing behind her.
It’s the best damn life.
As I cut new pieces of wood for my next project, Cameron opens the side door and closes it behind him.
“Hey, buddy. What’s up? You ready to turn sixteen tomorrow?”
His grin beams.
Neither Rose nor Jonathan have ever mentioned Cameron being adopted, so I’m not sure they’ll ever tell him. But it doesn’t matter. He’s a spitting image of me when I was sixteen, and my mom has noticed it too. Alice and I have agreed to never mention it unless Cameron has a medical emergency and would need something like a kidney donated or a bone marrow transplant.
“What do you think about this camp?” He shows me his phone and the email about a soccer camp in Atlanta.
