Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92371 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92371 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“Well, sometimes I think life was probably better seventy years ago. Less noise. A simpler life. Great music. And yeah,” she glances down, “women brushing their hair fifty times before bed and needing no excuse to look cute and feminine in a pre-yoga-pants era is appealing to me, even if it’s weird to you or your fiancée.”
I’m a dick.
Eight years ago, she imploded before my eyes, leaving me in the rubble. What I would have given to see her in absolutely any dress, doing any job.
“What do you do for a living?” she asks before I have a chance to apologize for my comment.
“I’m a freelance technical writer. Basically, I write—”
“You write support documents for technical and complex information. Instruction manuals.”
“Uh, yeah. How did you know that?”
She squints for a second. “I don’t know. I must have come across someone who had the same profession.”
I bite my tongue, thinking me. You came across me.
“Okay. I’m out of here. Last chance for one of you to join me,” Hunter says, parading down the stairs.
“Have a lovely time, Mr. Morrison. I’m off to finish your study,” Alice says.
I jab my thumb behind me. “You know where I’ll be.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles on his way to the back door.
It clicks shut, and a few minutes later, I hear the rumble of his red 1967 Corvette coupe pulling onto the street. I force myself to work for another twenty minutes before breaking for dinner. Taking the long way to the kitchen, I peek into Hunter’s study. Alice has all of his books in neat piles on the floor, while she stands on the sliding ladder to dust the shelves. Her wedge heels are next to his desk, and Billie Holiday is singing “I’ll Be Seeing You” on Hunter’s upscale turntable.
When Blair introduced me to her parents, I was instantly drawn to his vinyl collection and his fifteen-thousand-dollar turntable. She said her dad never let her touch his collection and didn’t understand why I cared about something so old. How would she feel about the homemaker playing his records?
I leave Alice to her work and make myself dinner. While I smash avocado with lime, garlic, salt, and cilantro, I hear footsteps behind me and turn. Alice has her shoes back on.
“You don’t have to wear those for me,” I say.
“I thought I smelled something burning,” she says, ignoring my shoe comment.
“A little cheese ran out of my quesadilla.” I nod toward the griddle. “Don’t worry. I’ll clean it up.”
“I would have made you dinner.” She pulls a plate from the cabinet.
“You’re not my homemaker. I’ve got this.”
“I’m the homemaker. And you live in this home for now, so I’m your …”
I chuckle. “Maker?”
Alice returns a half grin. “Yes. Where are your tomatoes?”
“I don’t need any. This will work.”
“Of course you need tomatoes. Be right back.”
“Alice—”
She’s out the door before I can finish my protest. A few minutes later, she returns with the perfect orange and yellow heirloom tomato. After a quick rinse, she sets it on the butcher block cutting board and dices it.
“Don’t you have a study to finish organizing?”
“I’m about done. It’s been a three-day project.” She checks on my quesadilla and transfers it to the cutting board, where she uses her chef’s knife to cut it into four wedges. Then she steals the bowl of guacamole from me and mixes in the fresh cut tomatoes.
I step aside because I know she gets into a zone while cooking. It’s hard to hide my grin when she chops red onion to add to the guacamole. Then she arranges the quesadilla on the plate and transfers the guacamole to a smaller dish that fits nicely in the middle of the plate.
“What can I get you to drink?” she asks, taking the plate to the dining room table where she sets it on a placemat and arranges utensils on a cloth napkin next to it.
I hold up my bottle of beer when she turns to face me. “Got my own drink like a big boy. And I will not use any of that silverware. I’ll eat it with my hands, lick my greasy fingers, and wipe them on my jeans if I need a napkin.”
God I wish I could read her mind. How does she not remember the best (and worst) two weeks of my life? A fortnight that ended abruptly, a scar that I’ve carried ever since.
“I’m going to finish up in the study. If you need anything, let me know.”
“I need you to eat dinner with me. I was going to take it to the bedroom and eat it at my desk while working, but now you have everything neatly arranged at this big table. So I need company.”
“I really should finish in the study.”
I sit at the table. “Hunter says you’re an excellent listener, way more attentive than Vera. Sit. I have some grievances to air about this upcoming wedding. Do I have homemaker-client confidentiality privileges with you?” I dip the quesadilla into the guacamole.