Page 87 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
Something delicious fills the air the moment I push into the house after practice but as I walk down the hall and into the kitchen, there’s no sign of Faye.
I move to the counter, lift the lid of the crock pot (another kitchen accessory I had but never used), and my stomach rumbles.
Fuck, that smells good.
Practice was brutal today—Coach putting us through our paces in preparation of the upcoming road trip.
We’ll be out of our normal routine, on enemy ice—and Coach made sure we’d be ready.
I snag a beer from the fridge, know it’ll soften the edges of my sore muscles, then go hunting for Faye.
She’s not in the dining room, her supplies spread out on my table as she plots her next book.
Not in the family room—my lips twitch—watching a hockey game.
Not in our bedroom—and maybe our is a little presumptuous but that’s where she belongs.
In bed beside me.
I make my way downstairs, a flicker of annoyance twisting with worry.
If she’s next door at her house without me…
Click-click-click-click. Click-click-click. Click-click.
I frown.
Then relief ripples through me as I spy her through the window, her fingers flying over the keyboard of her laptop.
Ever since she was able to take the splint off, she’s been doing that a lot.
Today, she’s sitting on the back deck, hair bundled on top of her head, tendrils escaping and curling along her nape. I stand there and watch her work, studying her face as types then pauses, clearly stopping to think, nose scrunching, teeth pressing into her bottom lip, head tilting to the side.
Then she smiles and her fingers start flying again.
I stand there as though there’s an invisible rope is connecting us, unable to look away but unwilling to interrupt her flow by going to her.
Not that I mind.
It’s a really great view.
Eventually, she sits back in the chair, reaching forward and closing her laptop.
That’s when I allow myself to finally open the door and join her on the deck.
Something loosens in me when she immediately smiles and pushes up to her feet.
My Faye.
Still sweet, still happy to see me. Still mine.
“Hey,” she says, coming over and wrapping her arms around my middle.
I bury my face in her hair, loving the scent of her, then tug out the tie and tangle my fingers in the silken strands. Her soft curves press against my body and when I tilt her head back, she smiles before her lush lips mold to mine.
“Red,” I murmur, brushing my thumb lightly over her collarbone when we pull back.
“Gray,” she murmurs back.
