Page 19 of The Homemaker
Alice
Humans are not that complex.
We’re all in search of pleasure.
Eight Years Earlier …
Nothing wasoff the table in the imaginary world I’d created.
Wine for breakfast.
Chocolate for lunch.
Three o’clock naps.
Sex with strangers.
It wasn’t like the world would end—because it already had.
I pan seared a ribeye at nine in the evening with tongs in my right hand, an open bottle of wine in my left, and EllaFitzgerald singing “I’ve Got A Crush On You.” While I twirled in a circle, something moved outside. Through the French doors, my gaze locked with Murphy’s as he picked up Palmer on his way from the garage to his stairs under the soft glow of the string lights.
I set my wine on the counter and opened the door. “Hungry?”
He stroked the cat’s back several times before setting him on the ground. “It’s late.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Is the music too loud?”
“No. I’m implying I’ve already had dinner.”
I snapped the tongs at him. “I’m not asking if you’ve had dinner. I’m asking if you’re hungry.”
“I’m good.”
“Of course you’re good, but I make a mean steak that’s better than good.”
Murphy offered a shy grin as he tucked his chin and rubbed the back of his neck. Did I make him nervous?
“I need to—” he began.
“Wash your hair?”
He glanced up with a goofy grin.
“Just come inside while you think up a better excuse than that.” I waved toward the door. “I need to flip and baste my perfect steak.” As I turned the sizzling steak, Murphy stepped inside, closing the door behind him, but he didn’t go any farther.
“Remove your shoes. House rules,” I said. “Unless you’re not staying because you need to wash your hair. And I would totally understand because you have great hair. It’s thick and the perfect amount of messy.” I sipped my wine from the bottle. “I’ve been a blonde for two years. It was fun for a while, but the upkeep is exhausting.”
“What’s your natural color?” he asked, toeing off his sneakers.
“Murphy, you never ask a lady about her natural hair color.” I narrowed my eyes at him before setting the bottle on the counter beside the stove.
“It smells amazing in here,” he said, taking a few steps toward me then leaning his shoulder against the fridge.
I basted the steak with a spoon. “Butter, fresh garlic, and rosemary.”
He nodded, narrowing his eyes. “Are you married?”
I shut off the stove and transferred the steak to a cutting board. “Are you asking me this because I can cook? You think only wives can cook?”
