Ethan
Every day,I listen to the delighted sounds of my children playing in the backyard, squealing and laughing as they buzz around Tori. Her laugh carries too, a note or two below theirs, but just asdazzling.
But the moment I’m cleaned up after work and head into the kitchen, Tori quiets and scurries off to her room, leaving me with a piping-hot dinner on the stove and the table set forthree.
And my kids? All they do is talk about Tori. How fun she is. How she colors with them and plays pretend. How she gives them little tasks while she’s cooking so they stay busy.Snap the peas. Wash the carrots. Organize the Tupperware.And they love it. They love feeling useful. Mila tells me that Cody attaches himself to Tori’s leg half the time while she’s in the kitchen, and she lets him. Talks to him. Explains what she’s doing, and the kid listens—or tries to. It’s like she’s a goddamn babywhisperer.
Don’t get me started about her meals. They’redelicious.
I feel guilty as hell for enjoying them withouther.
It’s maddening. It shouldn’t be. I shouldn’t care what she does with her evenings. In fact, I told her she was free to do as she pleased when I was done working each day, but it bothers me that she seems to be going out of her way to avoidme.
We haven’t had lunch together again either. Just that first day. Now she packs the food and sends Mila in with the picnic basket to drop it off while she waits at the entrance of the barn with Cody. Or the kids come to eat with me while she startsdinner.
All week. She avoids meallweek.
By Friday, I’ve had enough. After I get the kids to bed, I knock on her bedroomdoor.
“Comein.”
She’s sprawled across the bed with her arm over her face. Her hair is wet and she’s wearing those tiny sleep shorts and another tank top. She does one of those cat-like stretches, and I ignore the throb in my groin when the fabric of her shirt pulls up to display the taut skin on her smoothstomach.
You’re not here to ogle her, douchebag.I make a point to focus on herface.
“Hey. Wanted to thank you for dinner. Best brisket I’ve had in ages, but don’t tell my mom your food is better thanhers.”
Tori sits up slowly and gives me a hesitant smile. “Noprob.”
Those bright eyes study me. At least she’s not lookingaway.
Saysomething.
“It’s Friday night. No bigplans?”
She hums. “I’m not really in the mood to beg any of my friends to drive this far to pick me up for a night of cheap beer and loudmusic.”
“You can borrow my truckanytime.”
A shadow passes over her, but in a flash, it’s gone. “I’d feel weirdasking.”
“I don’tmind.”
Her slender shoulders shrug. “Still.”
Leaning against her doorframe, I cross my arms. “You always thisstubborn?”
That smile returns, and it hits me in the sternum. “Yeah. Get used toit.”
There it is.There’s the fire she hosed me down with the first time wemet.
I chuckle and slip my hands into my pockets. “Since you’re too good to drive my truck and too cool to eat dinner with us, how about keeping me company while I watch the end of the Rangers game? You like baseball? I have two pints of Ben & Jerry’s, and I’m willing to share in exchange for conversation with someone who isn’t my sibling orchild.”
Her eyes lower. “I shouldn’t, but thanks for theoffer.”
Here we go again.“Can I ask you something? Did I offend you?” Those golden eyes, wide and surprised, meet mine. “Because you’ve been doing your damnedest to avoid me since lunch earlier thisweek.”
After a long pause, she sighs. “I’m doing you afavor.”
