Before Him

I huff out a chuckle because no. Not now. I couldn’t . . . could I?

“Mrs Phillips, get your mind out of the gutter.”

“Really?” I shake my head like he’s the naughtiest pupil in the class. “I wonder why my mind went there? Could it be because you have my boob in your hand?”

“I think it’s more likely because you like it when I—”

“Enough of that, Mr Dirty Mouth.”

“I am actually hungry,” he says. “So hungry, my belly thinks my throat has been cut.”

“You are weird. But if you’re hungry”—I slide my feet over the side of the bed—“I can make you some eggs or something.”

“The little woman in the kitchen, taking care of her man?”

“Ha, funny.” As my feet touch the floor, I gather the sheet around me. “Until you move in, you’re a guest in this house. As your hostess, I should probably make you something to eat.”

“Was that an invitation?”

I turn to look at him and, for a moment, wonder about that sly-looking smile he’s wearing. “To help? Oh.” The penny drops.

“’Cause if it’s not, you need to say now because I’m two seconds away from going to grab my things.”

“You want to move in?” My voice sounds small and kind of ridiculous.

“Move in with my wife and son? Is that even a serious question?”

“Yes?” I kind of shrink into myself. “Because . . . yes?”

“Then here’s your serious answer. Better make some space in the wardrobe, darl.” And then he lunges for me.

* * *

We decide to wait until Wilder comes home this afternoon before making any move on the plan because Roman feels it’s only fair to run the idea past our son. Totally adorable yet slightly ridiculous. Equally ridiculous is Roman’s assumption that I can’t cook. Apparently, he got the idea when he discovered I’d made sausage pasta one time. According to him, this is not an actual thing.

Anyway, it turns out, I’ve got me a man who can cook, so I’m not complaining. Though I have expressed my concerns about him doing so as naked as a jaybird.

“Kennedy, love,” he calls up the stairs. “Do you have any chives?”

“Does he think I own a restaurant?” I mutter, slipping a T-shirt over my head. “I think there might be some dried chives in the spice rack next to the fridge,” I shout back.

“Yeah, there was. I think they came over on the Mayflower. Never mind,” he adds, “I’ll improvise.”

Rude! “I’m not sure how you can improvise with chives,” I mutter as I tie back my hair. Unless he’s going to pull a few blades of grass from the yard. Chives are just garnish, right?

My phone rings on the nightstand, Holland’s number appearing on the screen with an invitation to FaceTime. I’ve been avoiding her lately, and my newly turned leaf says this has to stop. I need to tell her about Roman—some of it at least—so I take a quick look at my face in the mirror to check for stubble rash, or pash rash, as Roman had called it, before hitting accept.

“Hey, Holly.”

At my greeting, my sister quirks her head like an inquisitive bird. “Oh, so you do remember how this thing works?”

“Yeah, very funny. I’ve been busy. Wilder’s birthday wasn’t going to run itself.”

“Oh.” Her expression falls. “I’m sorry. I forgot all about that.”

“It’s no big deal. You paid for us to go to Disney for the real deal, remember?” Once Wilder was over chickenpox.

“Did you make the piñata? What was the theme this year?”

“Minecraft,” I mutter and roll my eyes for effect. “And no, I did not. We can’t all be the queen of crafts.”

“Or the queen of baking. Remember when you made those cookies for Wilder’s second birthday party? They were supposed to be wiener dogs, but they looked like boy parts?”

“Dicks and balls, Holland. You can use your big girl words.”

“Welp, that answers my next question. Wilder isn’t about.”

“He’s with Ethan and Annie, but he’ll be back this afternoon.”

Also, I have a mostly naked man in my kitchen, a man my sister knows nothing about. Should I mention it? Maybe not the naked part.

“Actually, it’s good he’s not around. I need to have a wee talk with you.”

“Getting into the local lingo?” I nod my head as though impressed. “Sounds ridiculous.”

“As ridiculous as cleaning out Ed? What does that even mean? Were you drunk when you wrote me that email?”

“Nope. He seemed to think I wasn’t being serious when I banned him from High Grounds for life. So I doused him with a pitcher of drinking water to refresh his memory.” No one jilts my sister and gets away with it.

“Dede, really? What’s next, his tyres?” she deadpans.

“That’s not a bad idea.”

“It’s a terrible idea.”

“Okay, superglueing his mailbox, it is! I’m joking,” I add as her lips begin to flap soundlessly.