Page 81 of The Homemaker
“I’ve missed you.”
“Aw …” She makes duck lips. “I missed you too, baby. But I want to get a workout in before dinner.”
“Great idea. I’ll let you ride me.” I lean forward and reach for her hand.
She pulls away and scrambles off the other side of the bed. “Tonight.” She blows me a kiss.
I wait for her to change her mind, but the only change she makes is into her leggings and sports bra.
“My parents are going out to dinner tonight, so we’ll have the house to ourselves for a few hours. How does that sound?”
I scrub my hands over my face and look at her with a manufactured smile and a tiny nod.
“I’m jogging to the park and doing some stretching there before heading home. Give me an hour?”
Again, I nod.
“Enjoy your dinner,” she says to her parents in the hallway.
“Alice is making a quiche for tomorrow morning,” Vera says. “If you want her to make you two dinner, let her know before she leaves for the night.”
“Murphy and I will fend for ourselves, but I’ll tell her on my way out the back door,” Blair replies.
I stare out the window and wait for Vera and Hunter to pull onto the street. A few seconds later, Blair jogs down thesidewalk. I should stay in my room and wait for her to return. Maybe we’ll shower together.
Unfortunately, I’ve never been good at doing what I should do, so I head to the kitchen. “I hear you have the night off.”
Alice jerks her head up like I’ve startled her, then she seethes, quickly looking back down at the cutting board filled with diced onion and blood.
“Oh, shit,” I say, grabbing a towel.
“It’s f-fi.” She passes out, and I catch her before she hits the floor.
“Alice?” I ease her onto her back and wrap her cut finger with a towel before pulling out a drawer to prop up her feet.
Her eyes slowly open.
“Welcome back. I think you’ll need a couple of stitches.”
She hugs her wrapped hand to her chest. “I ruined the quiche,” she says in a weak voice.
“I don’t think you need to concern yourself with that. Let’s go get this taken care of.”
“I’ve got it.” She winces, trying to sit up. “Oh god, is it bad?”
I laugh a little. “I take it you don’t handle blood well.”
“Not mine. Ugh, I feel nauseous.”
“Just don’t look at it. Look at me. Chin up.” I lift her off the floor, and she drops her gaze to her hand. “Alice, look at me.”
She swallows hard, skin pasty white. “Just call me a cab.”
“I’m not calling you a cab,” I say, carrying her down the stairs to the garage.
“It feels weird,” she says in a desperate tone. “Did you look at it? Is it still attached? Is part of my fingerstill on the cutting board. Oh god …” She closes her eyes, each breath more labored than the previous one.
It’s not funny, so I try not to laugh, but I’ve never seen this side of her. I set her on her feet, keeping one arm around her waist as I open the passenger door.
