Page 101 of Resisting Mr. Granville

“I will,” Kennedy says, also to no one in particular as she comes over to the counter.

I don’t look over at her, but I can feel her awkwardly hovering as she sets aside the ingredients she won’t need and grabs a cutting board out of the cupboard. She grabs a knife out of the block and wordlessly chops up the onion first.

Before she starts on the peppers, she walks to the sink to rinse the blade of her knife. I glance over at the sink, then frown when I see a skillet and two plates and forks in the basin.

“Why are there dishes in the sink?” I ask without thought since I wasn’t home for breakfast and neither of the boys ever cook when left to their own devices. If I’m not here, they usually have cereal for breakfast.

Kennedy freezes in the act of turning off the water.

She doesn’t speak or move. Her horror compels my gaze to move over the dishes again.

Two place settings.

Jonathan doesn’t cook.

She made Jonathan breakfast this morning.

How fucking thoughtful.

I season the steak a little more aggressively, but I feel sick to my fucking stomach picturing it in my head.

Morning-after breakfast.

Why does that feel worse than everything I’ve already heard?

Maybe it’s just the straw on top of a shitty fucking stack.

Maybe because he specifically told me there was nothing romantic about what happened between them, and the idea of her making him breakfast after feels… romantic.

What else am I imagining wrong?

In my head, Kennedy was curled up by herself realizing she’d made a horrible fucking mistake after sleeping with Jonathan, but now thoughts surface of Jonathan mentioning there was a second time without a condom, and Jet positing that sex between them would be fucking incredible.

Was it?

Did she enjoy it? Did she want more?

Isshe interested in my fucking son now?

My heart races as my brain barrels down this track I very much did not want to go down. I feel sick without answers, but sicker at the thought of getting the wrong ones.

Without answering me, Kennedy goes back to the chopping board and resumes silently cutting the bell peppers. I can feel her distress even though she doesn’t say anything. I wonder if she can feel mine.

I try to shake off my feelings about it. Whatever he was wrong about, Jonathan was right that she doesn’t need any relationship drama right now.

I still feel fucking sick, but I have to suck it up.

I’m a little noisier than I probably need to be as I grab the skillet out of the cupboard and pour in some olive oil to heat. Kennedy jumps a little as the skillet hits the stovetop. I look over and see her face pale, her grip on the knife so tight her knuckles are white.

“Am I cutting these right?” she asks, her voice a little shaky.

My gaze flickers to the strips she’s making. Since she’s so nervous, I make an effort to keep my tone calm, but it comes out a little short. “Yes.”

With a brittle nod, she resumes cutting the rest of the pepper.

I work on my side of the counter until I no longer hear chopping, then I figure I better venture over to grab the veggies she chopped up.

When I turn and start to reach for the cutting board full of ingredients, I notice Kennedy is still holding the knife. Her gaze is locked on her wrist like she’s in a trance, and my heart fucking stops when I can all but hear what she’s thinking about in my own head.

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