Page 24 of The Homemaker

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 plateto 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.

Alice studies me for a few seconds before smoothing her hand down the front of her apron and pulling out the chair next to me, sitting with her legs crossed. I remember so many things about those fucking incredible legs, but I wish I didn’t.

She clears her throat, and my eyes lift. There’s an awkward breath as we share a silent acknowledgment that I was staring at her legs.

“Blair told me I could have lots of input on this wedding.” I dive into conversation as I hand Alice a wedge of my quesadilla.

She shakes her head, so I set it on the table in front ofher, which makes her frown while picking up the wedge and eyeing the grease it left behind.

“I was told I could pick out whatever cake flavor I wanted for the groom’s cake. Makes sense, right?” I mumble over a bite of food.

Alice offers a one-shouldered shrug with a tiny nod. Then she steals the knife to spread guacamole over the top of her quesadilla. I keep my grin in check.

“So I said chocolate cake, and Blair and Vera rolled their eyes at me. The baker suggested red velvet cake, and that seemed to please Blair and her mom, but I don’t want red velvet cake. I want regular chocolate. Then they suggested a filling if I wanted chocolate. They said orange, cherry, or raspberry pair well with chocolate cake. Nope. I just want plain chocolate cake with chocolate frosting.”

Alice finishes chewing and licks her lips. “So what cake are you getting?”

“Rum cake.”

She presses her fingers to her lips to muffle her laughter. Then she reaches for my beer.

I don’t stop her, but before the bottle touches her lips, she freezes, and her smile dies as she slowly sets the beer back on the table.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, swallowing hard. “I’d better get back to work.”

I don’t argue because even if she doesn’t remember me, her body has muscle memory of how we were together.

Chapter Eleven