I knew I liked her a lot.
I could admit that, but the revelation came with its share of trouble. I wasn’t supposed to like my wife. We were pedal to the floor, speeding straight for Splitsville.
“How’d you know it was my birthday?” I asked.
Olivia pierced another bite with her fork. “I know a lot about you, Lachlan Hayes.”
I smiled and tried to ignore the floral scent of her perfume that would haunt my kitchen after she left. “Oh, yeah? How old am I today?”
Her knee bumped mine, and she didn’t seem inclined to move. “Fifty.”
No hour was too early for sarcasm for my Olivia. “Nice try. Do you have a thing for older men?”
“No, I just fantasize about the senior discount at the Dairy Barn.”
“Maybe your next husband will get you half-price shakes.”
Then she changed the topic and caught me off guard. “Do you miss your mom on days like today?”
The question instantly irritated, like a cactus needle to the skin. “Birthdays are just another day, Olivia.”
She had taken a sip of coffee, her eyes watching me over the steaming mug. “It’s okay if you do miss her. You should’ve been surrounded by loved ones on every single birthday.”
I’d had birthdays where I’d dug myself a pit and wallowed in it for days. Not one birthday passed that I didn’t think of my mom and wish she could be there to celebrate with me. Then that usually led to thoughts of my dad, and from there the world turned dark and stormy. “I’m a big boy. I don’t need anyone to throw me a party.”
She chewed her bacon thoughtfully for a moment. “Everyone needs a birthday party. And you didn’t answer my question.”
“I believe I did.”
“I would miss my family if I couldn’t be with them on my birthday.”
“But you might not be with them next year.”
A glimmer of sadness dimmed her eyes. “True. But they’ll be with me in spirit.” One more drink of coffee, then Olivia poured another round of syrup onto her plate.
“What are we doing at five o’clock?” I asked a few pancakes later, more than intrigued.
“It’s a surprise.” Her smile turned mischievous and entirely kissable as she stacked our empty plates. “Don’t be late.”
“You’re not going to drive me to a secluded forest and make sure I’m never heard from again, are you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We have a fake baby to raise.”
“Nope,” I’d told her as I stood. “That’s between you and Hemsworth. I can’t love a baby who’s genetically guaranteed to be too beautiful to be mortal.”
“You’re not too hard on the eyes yourself.” And with that, my ever-serious wife swatted me on the backside and whistled a happy tune as she left for work.
* * *
The time wasfive minutes till five, and I stood in the kitchen that evening, rereading the note, thinking poetic thoughts about the swoop and curve of Olivia’s handwriting. It was strong and elegant—like her.
The door from the garage opened, and in she walked, a garment bag slung over her shoulder and the day’s stress still fresh on her face.
“Hey,” Olivia said.
“Hey, yourself.”
She draped her bag over a barstool and tossed car keys on the counter. “Did you have a good birthday?” she asked.
