Page 16 of The Homemaker
Corkscrewing her lips, she repeated her slow nod. “Again, I’m sorry.”
“Alice Yates.” I held out my hand. “It’s been a pleasure. But you are so far out of my league, I will most certainly fall off that pedestal. Again, if you need anything, let me know. Otherwise, enjoy your stay, and please leave a review if you have time—on the rental, not my cornhole skills.”
She lifted her sunglasses onto her head and eyed me from head to toe, grinning like a fool while shaking my hand. “I didn’t take you for a quitter. Granted, that’s just me judging you based on your handsome smile, thick dark hair, and height. I didn’t think it was possible to be over six feet tall and be a quitter.”
“And the hits just keep coming.” I pressed a hand to my chest and stumbled backward.
“Let me make you dinner to make up for the loss.”
“I shouldn’t. But thank you.”
“Girlfriend?”
I shook my head.
“Wife?”
“No. I just can’t risk anything going wrong and you leaving me a bad review.”
Her grin swelled. “I’m an excellent cook.”
I chuckled, heading toward the stairs. “Alice, I have no doubt that you’re excellent at literally everything. Enjoy your stay.”
Chapter Eight
Alice
Life is a journey.
But don’t forget it’s still a circle.
Sunday morning,I tend to the garden on my hands and knees, picking vegetables for the day’s meals. At the sound of laughter, I glance over my shoulder.
Blair and Murphy have returned from a run, and they’re stretching by the back door. He says something, and she throws her head back in laughter. Then she pulls the tie from her hair, letting her thick, sweaty tresses fall down her perfectly tanned back. She’s the blonde I used to dream of being before tiring from my roots growing out.
Murphy opens the back door, and Blair lifts her leg. He squats in front of her to remove her shoes. She lovingly runs her hands through his hair, her enormous diamond catchingthe sun’s rays like God himself is winking at her for finding the perfect man.
I have no good reason to hate her, but it’s going to be a long summer, and I’m afraid I’ll do it anyway.
After I finish in the garden, I set the basket of veggies aside and run back to my place to wash up and slip on a light blue dress with a white collar and buttons.
Minutes later, I’m in their kitchen with my strappy pumps and white apron, cleaning the vegetables while the breakfast casserole cooks in the oven.
“Good morning, Alice,” Mr. Morrison says, his voice deep and husky. Manly, like his pungent spice cologne.
“Good morning,” I say, scrubbing the vegetables from the garden. “A breakfast casserole is in the oven. Can I get you coffee?”
“Is there red meat in the casserole?” he asks, pulling a glass bottle of water from the fridge.
“Turkey sausage, per Mrs. Morrison’s request.”
“I’ll take my usual, Alice. Thanks.” He saunters out of the kitchen.
I sigh, shutting off the water and drying my hands before pulling a steak wrapped in butcher paper from the fridge. As soon as I have it seasoned and in the hot cast-iron skillet to sear, I serve Mr. Morrison his coffee.
“Murphy!” Blair squeals playfully from the other side of the house.
Mr. Morrison rolls his eyes, lifting his cup of coffee to his lips as I set a fork and steak knife on a cloth napkin next to his saucer. “How would you feel about staying in the main house this summer so we can kick those two out into the guesthouse?”
