Page 89 of The Homemaker
“Not helpful,” he grumbles. “So eight counts to the right in a sway then eight to the left, or should I dip her?”
Murphy dips me then lifts our hands and turns me in a slow circle. “If you feel like dipping and twirling, it’s never a bad idea.”
I can’t keep a straight face.
“Goddammit! Who’s calling me?” Hunter checks his phone. “I have to take this. Just keep going. Give me five minutes. I’ll be back, and we can start from the top again.” He lifts the turntable needle to play the song from the beginning. “Hello?” he answers his phone and exits the room.
Murphy narrows his eyes again when I step on his toes—his naked toes because Hunter must have dragged him in here spur of the moment in shorts, a T-shirt, and bare feet. He grabs my shoulders to stop me from moving. Then he crouches before me and unbuckles the ankle strap of one shoe while his other hand rests on my calf before removing my shoe.
I hold my breath.
He repeats with the other shoe, but this time he leaves his hand on my calf.
My heart drums, pulse thundering in my ears, sliding one foot out and then the other. His head remains bowed as his hand inches higher, behind my knee.
And a little higher.
My lips part, eyelids closing in a heavy blink. There is no part of my body that doesn’t crave his touch.
This is so wrong.
My fingers curl into tight fists, keeping them from reaching for his hair to pull him to me.
He audibly swallows and stands. I force my breath to leave my lungs in tiny, controlled, and muted increments.
“Better.” He grins, standing and guiding my arms around his neck.
Better? Is he joking? I’m sweating from head to toe.
I can’t tear my gaze from his, as I silently demand he explain what just happened. But he says nothing. Eyes intense, a little dark.
After swaying for a bit, Murphy takes my hand and twirls me again, breaking the intensity of the moment. I lift onto my toes and pirouette dramatically.
He grins. “Nice.”
I giggle, stepping back into his embrace, pretending nothing happened—falling into character. “I don’t know why you think I’m good at everything.”
Murphy hums. “Good question.” His eyes shift, inspecting my face before stopping on my lips, stirring the flames again. I step on his toes again because I’m the worst dancer when he’s looking at me like we’re back in time, dancing on the creaky wood floor in his rental.
He’s engaged.
I have Callen.
If those two reasons aren’t enough to step away from his embrace, there are at least a hundred other good ones.
As if he can read my thoughts, Murphy releases me. The song is almost over anyway. He pulls in a long breaththrough his nose, lacing his hands behind his neck while eyeing me.
“Alice,” he says my name like it’s bitter coming off his tongue.
The guilt in his eyes spurs me to put on my shoes. Then I smooth my hand down my ponytail and pin a cordial smile on my face. “Tell Mr. Morrison I’ve requested the evening off, so I have to keep working if I want to leave early. He can plant his feet and sway with Vera. It’s the thought that counts.”
Murphy eyes me, the lines of regret along his forehead deepening. Without a word, he slowly nods, releasing his arms to his sides.
Whoever tried to simplify love into boy meets girl, they fall in love, the end, should be shot. Real life is more complicated. Love is fucking messy. We try to rationalize it and make rules. We take vows and oaths like our hearts don’t have a say.
I can be logical or I can be in love. But I’m certain I can’t do both.
Not now.
