Page 51 of The Homemaker

Murphy

Doing the right thing can be wrong.

You’re going to fuck things up. That’s life.

“What are you doing?”Alice asks as I wash the dishes.

“What does it look like?”

“It looks like you’re doing my job.” She buttons her dress as I glance over at her.

I guess I don’t get cleavage for doing the dishes.

“You gave me a piece of pie. The least I can do is clean up.”

“Go to your room. I’ve got this.” She nudges me aside and dons the pink latex gloves while I dry my hands.

“But, Mom, it’s not my bedtime yet.”

Alice keeps her chin tucked to hide her grin. “You’re trying to get me fired. Then I’ll have to work for Rupert Rawlings for twice the money.”

“You’re kidding. He offered you a job?”

She takes over washing the dishes. “Don’t act so surprised. I’m a rare commodity. Not a lot of women my age, or any age for that matter, would do what I do.”

I take the glass bowl from her and dry it. We’ve washed a lot of dishes together.

Flirty glances.

Playful nudges.

Stolen kisses that led to losing our clothes.

I doubt that will happen tonight.

“No one else does dishes?”

Alice elbows me. I guesswe areplayfully nudging tonight.

“Oh, you must be talking about the sexy fifties dresses. Or do you mean reading stories to old men while they nap?”

She eyes me, and I get to check “flirty glance” off the list. That just leaves stolen kisses and losing our clothes. My mind doesn’t care that I have a fiancée, but I wish it did because itneedsto get really fucking serious about these unresolved feelings.

“Does Blair know you’re this obnoxious with other women who you don’t know that well?”

“I feel like I know you.” I inspect her while drying the measuring cup, looking for a hint of recognition. Eventually, she’ll crack. “Do you feel like you know me?”

She shrugs a shoulder, keeping her gaze on the sink of sudsy water. “I feel like I know guys like you.”

“Guys like me? Dang. And here I thought I was an original. Please elaborate on what you mean by guys like me.”

“Homemakers are peacemakers. I’m not here to critique you. I’m here to make you feel at home.”

“In that case, stop what you’re doing. When I lived athome, my mom worked nights, and my dad fell asleep in his recliner by seven. So the dinner dishes didn’t get washed until the following morning because my sister and I snuck out of the house as soon as our dad’s eyes closed. And you’ll need to empty most of the clothes onto the floor by the washing machine. The fridge is entirely too organized. And don’t get me started on the perfectly made beds with no chip crumbs in them.”

“Sounds like a normal house.” She shoots me a quick smile.

Everything hurts inside. What if I put an end to this charade? Tell her I know she knows me. Then what?