When Sparks Fly

I nearly take off the end of my finger and set the knife down so I can give her my full attention. “Did you say me doing push-ups?”

Her grin is cheeky, but she flushes, which is a very un-Avery reaction. “You were showing off. Besides, our followers loved it, and it takes some of the pressure off Harley. Plus it gives me something productive to do that isn’t watching TV and trying to fold laundry one-handed.” She motions over to the couch where a basket sits.

For the first time, I notice that it’s not her laundry, it’s mine. “You don’t have to fold my laundry.”

“I didn’t do a great job. And I figured you’d rather not have to put them on the refresh cycle and forget about them again.”

“Thanks, that was nice of you. And it reminds me that I should drop my stuff off at the dry cleaners after dinner. If they’re still open.”

“It’s already there. And I scheduled delivery.”

“How did you get my stuff to the dry cleaners?”

“I had London and Harley take me. Anyway, when we go to the doctor’s this week, I was thinking to ask about phasing in a day a week at Spark House.”

I slide the chopped veggies into the frying pan and nod slowly. “If you think you’re ready for that and you don’t feel like it’s going to set you back, I think that’s a great idea.”

“One day a week isn’t too much, and the sooner I’m back to work, the better it’s going to be for our bottom line. You know how London worries about the finances. She should feel better about that soon, though, especially with the alumni association coming on board.”

I bite my tongue. After avoiding the conversation, London finally spilled the beans a couple of days ago that they didn’t get the alumni contract, which explains why London is worried about staying under budget. I wanted to tell Avery right away, but London insisted that they wait, worried she’d try and jump straight back into working full-time and potentially set back her recovery. I don’t quite agree this is the right way to handle things, but I can see her point, so I’m keeping my mouth shut for now. “Well, London always is more conservative when it comes to money and runs a tight ship. Now she’s dealing with the other side of things, so…”

Avery makes a face. “Yeah, she likes working with other businesses, but problem-solving with bridezilla isn’t her favorite.”

“I don’t know how you manage to keep your cool through this kind of thing. Sounds like a good reason not to get married.” I bring the plates over to the couch. Avery has her lap tray set up, and I’ve cut the chicken into manageable-sized bites.

I learned that lesson the first time I made something that required a knife and fork and reduced her to tears of frustration. I can handle a lot of things, but seeing Avery cry is akin to drinking bleach. She doesn’t get emotional to the point of tears often, and she hates it when she loses control like that. She’s strong and proud and stoic in the face of a challenge, so seeing her break down over something as simple as not being able to cut her own food is not something I’d ever like to repeat.

She inhales deeply. “Oh man, this smells amazing. Please don’t be offended if I can’t finish it, though. London and Harley brought a charcuterie board with them, and I really went to town on it, especially all the stuff covered in chocolate.” She stabs a piece of chicken parm. “And a bridezilla is not a reason to swear off marriage. Besides, it would be a travesty if you didn’t share your culinary skill set with another person.”

“I don’t need to get married to do that.” I motion to her as she pops the bite in her mouth and groans her food delight. “Case in point. And my relationship history should be enough of a red flag to send any smart woman running the other way.”

Avery gives me a sidelong glance. “Hookups don’t really count as relationships, Deck.”

I point a forkful of fusilli at her—spaghetti is on hold until she has the use of both hands again. “My point exactly.”

“Just because you haven’t had a relationship with substance doesn’t mean you’d be bad in one.”

“You grew up in a house with two parents who loved each other and treated each other with respect and consideration. My parents revenge-screwed their friends to piss each other off.” Their relationship is like something out of a soap opera. It goes on and on, back and forth, and three decades later, they still haven’t figured out that not talking to each other would be best for everyone, particularly me. “And I don’t do emotional connections.”