Page 21 of The Homemaker
He bent one arm behind his back while bowing and offering me his other hand. “May I have this dance?”
With my thumbs tucked into the front pockets of my shorts, I twisted my lips to the side for a few seconds. “I suppose.” I rested my hand in his, and he jerked me into his body, making me gasp as one hand rested confidentlyon my lower back while his other clasped with mine a few inches from my face.
He led. I followed. Well, I tried.
“You are truly an awful dancer, Alice Yates.”
My two left feet didn’t keep him from swinging me around the living room, dodging the coffee table and sofa. As the song ended, I risked a quick glance up at him. His hazel eyes ensnared me.
The wine.
The music.
The embrace of a stranger with great hair and a killer smile.
It was the best escape.
The next song on the track brought us out of the moment, and whatever was or wasn’t about to happen, because the song was just flat-out weird.
I released his hand and covered my mouth to muffle my laughter. “What is this?”
He chuckled, stepping past me to turn off the music and slide the record back into its sleeve. “Who taught you to cook?”
“YouTube,” I said.
He looked over his shoulder. “Seriously?”
I nodded.
“Well, thanks for sharing your dinner with me.”
I shook my head. “I told you. It’s not my dinner.”
“You just what? Get a hankering for a steak at nine o’clock at night?”
“Something like that. You should take the rest with you. Crack some eggs in the morning. Put a little cream in your coffee.” I grabbed the plate and handed it to him. “Just return the plate or I’llget fined.”
“I like my coffee black.”
I hesitated before returning a slow nod. “Okay. I’ll remember that.”
He scraped his teeth along his bottom lip. “I uh … thought we were going to have sex.”
My eyes widened. “Oh. Well, I mean?—”
A shit-eating grin engulfed his face as he brushed past me toward the back door. “Good night, Alice.”
Chapter Ten
Murphy
If we are what we eat, make every plate beautiful, every bite vibrant with flavor and color.
Weeks floatby in an endless loop of monotony. Blair and Vera spend an ungodly amount of time planning a wedding that I’ve been told will be “simple and intimate.” When I offer to help, they chuckle like the idea is ridiculous.
I get work done on my computer at the desk in our bedroom on the days I’m not golfing with Hunter. The “homemaker” haunts me because I can’t look at her as a stranger in a dress and white apron. Instead, every time I see Alice, I look for a spark of recognition, and I swallow all the unanswered questions that race to the tip of my tongue. When we make brief eye contact, she offers the same perfected smile before asking if she can get me anything.
“Vera?” Hunter calls with agitation to his voice. “Vera!”
