Page 12 of The Homemaker (The Chain of Lakes #1)

Chapter Twelve

Alice

There are two kinds of people:

grumpy people and those who nap.

“Enough with the flowers,” Blair grumbles, traipsing into the kitchen before breakfast. She tightens her robe sash.

“I’m here for the summer. I’m a goddamn artist. There’s no reason for you to arrange flowers every morning.

There’s no reason for you to do most of the things you do, but certainly not this. ” She slides the vase away from me.

“Okay then.” I give her a tight smile.

“I stripped our bed, so why don’t you throw the sheets in the washer if you’re looking for something useful to do.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“ Blair. Please stop the ma’am shit.”

I bite my tongue and take a few steps toward her bedroom .

“Alice?” Blair sighs. “I’m … ugh! I’m so sorry.

I’m PMSing, miserably on the verge of starting my period.

And literally everything is irritating me.

Planning this wedding is stressful. I just want to move to New York.

And I’m sure you don’t care about my problems, but I’m really sorry for snapping at you. I was out of line.”

Is she apologizing to me? I’d rather she not. It’s easier for me to deal with my feelings for Murphy if I don’t relate to his fiancée.

“It’s fine. Planning a wedding isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

“Oh, have you been married?”

“No,” I murmur, continuing to her bedroom, stopping at the doorway because Murphy is on the phone, pacing the room.

He smiles, holds up a finger and mouths, “One second.”

I point to the pile of sheets on the floor and quickly gather them before he’s off the call and we’re forced to make small talk.

“Okay, that sounds like the best plan. Thank you, Rob. I’ll call you later.” He ends his call. “Good morning.”

Too late.

“Morning.” I focus on gathering the sheets instead of looking at his bright smile.

“Give me a sec. I need to shake them out because I think Blair, in her impatient mood, gathered up my wallet that I tossed onto the bed.”

I slowly release the sheets and step aside just as Murphy steps in the same direction, then we do it in the other direction.

Risking a glance up at him, I return a nervous smile.

“I guess you can dance after all.” He smirks .

I step to the side to put space between us, but bump into the desk. It hits the wall, and I cringe, inspecting for any damage.

“Sorry, that was my fault,” he says. “And don’t worry. If it dented the wall, it won’t be the first time I’ve had to do a little wall repair from a desk.”

Is that a reference? Why would he? He doesn’t know I remember him.

There is a little dent from where the desk hit the wall. “Dammit,” I whisper.

“Hey, I’m serious. It’s okay,” Murphy says, shaking out the sheets. “Ah, there’s my wallet.”

I run my finger along the dent.

“It’s barely noticeable,” he murmurs over my shoulder.

When I turn, Murphy is so close our noses nearly touch. I feel pinned to the desk while craning my head back to create space between us.

His gaze sweeps across my face. “Have you ever had déjà vu?” he whispers.

It’s not déjà vu, and he knows it.

“You feel like you’ve lost your wallet in the sheets before, but you haven’t?”

His lips corkscrew. “Sort of. But it wasn’t a wallet I lost.”

“Murphy?” Blair calls.

He takes a giant step backward and draws in a sharp breath.

“Be patient with her,” I say. “She’s on the verge of getting her happily ever after, but sometimes that can be stressful.”

His lips part, but he just as quickly clamps his jaw shut and nods several times. “Coming,” he hollers.

I gather the sheets again.

“Are you happy?” he asks as I step toward the doorway .

I pause for a second without a backward glance. “Of course,” I murmur and continue toward the laundry room.

“Alice, can you come in here for a second?” Hunter requests as I pass his study.

“Yes, sir.” I quickly toss the sheets onto the laundry room floor and return to his luxurious two-story study lined on three sides with bookshelves and modern wood stairs with a metal railing to the second-story catwalk.

Magnificent arched windows behind his desk illuminate the grand space.

A sweet and spicy smoke aroma lingers despite the cracked window.

Vera doesn’t let him smoke cigars in the house, but he clearly does it anyway.

“How do you feel about reading books?” he asks, removing his readers.

“Um, fine. I guess. Why?”

Soft jazz plays on his turntable.

“I want you to read to me.” He lumbers from his desk chair and loosens his red tie, then he scans the neatly organized bookshelves while unbuttoning the top two buttons of his white dress shirt. He selects a book from the bottom shelf. “Have you read Three Men in a Boat ?”

“I have not,” I say, then press my lips together to hide my grin. This job just keeps getting better.

“It’s a soothing story. Would you mind?” He hands me the book, then he slides a tufted brown leather chair close to the matching sofa. “Have a seat. What can I get you to drink? Scotch? Wine?” He adds ice to a glass, ice that I filled earlier. But now he’s serving me?

“Just water,” I say. “Thank you.”

He sets the ice water by the table lamp and reclines on the sofa, ankles crossed, hands folded on his chest, eyes closed .

After a few seconds of silence, he peeks open one eye. “Just a few chapters. Then I have work to do.”

Does he really? I continue to suppress my giggle.

Crossing my legs, I clear my throat and begin reading. By the end of the first chapter, I think he’s asleep, but since I don’t know for sure, I keep going for two more chapters. At the end of chapter three, I wait. Is he going to wake up? Am I supposed to wake him?

“Mr. Morrison?” I whisper.

He doesn’t move.

I set the book aside and lean forward, resting my hand on his arm. “Mr. Morrison?”

His eyes pop open, and he sits up, stretching his arms over his head on a big yawn. “You have a calming voice. What do you think of the story so far?”

I think no one would believe me if I told them I got paid a hundred dollars an hour to read to a silver fox.

“It’s entertaining.” I offer a smile.

“I can’t get Vera to read it. Maybe when we’re done, you can convince her.” He stands, tucking in his shirt.

So this will be a regular thing? Hunter Morrison is a peculiar man, and I’m here for all his rich man’s indulgences.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” I ask, returning the book to its spot on the shelf.

“You could slip this registration in the glove compartment of my Ferrari and put the new tag on the plate.” He slides a folded piece of paper across his desk. “Grab the keys by the door. They’re the ones with the Ferrari logo.”

I nod. “Okay.”

“And, Alice?”

“Yes?”

“Do you by any chance make bar soap? ”

Sometimes I think there’s a hidden camera, and this is all a joke. In fact, I make a quick inspection of the corners of the room. He continues to challenge my composure. A giggle tries to work its way up my chest, but I swallow it back down and clear my throat. “Um … not yet.”

“If you do, avoid vanilla. I’m not a fan.”

I nod slowly.

“Thank you, Alice. Best nap of my life.”

“You’re welcome.”

I first toss the sheets into the washing machine, then I find the Ferrari keys and head down to the basement, where there’s a two-lane bowling alley, a second kitchen, and a theater room, along with two more bedrooms. Then I pull on the maple bookshelf to expose the hidden door to the underground garage, which doubles as a panic room.

The ramp at the far end leads to the driveway.

It opens, seemingly out of nowhere, straight to the main street.

There are no words to describe the Morrisons’ lavish home.

After a few steps toward the car, I hear someone behind me and glance over my shoulder at Blair and Murphy holding hands.

“Are those my dad’s car keys?” Blair asks, nodding toward the key chain around my finger.

“Yes. He asked me to do something for him.” I continue toward the Ferrari.

“He’s not letting you drive his car, is he?”

I close my eyes and remember she has PMS brain and can’t be held responsible for her bitchiness.

Again, I stop. This time, I turn toward her.

“It doesn’t matter, come on,” Murphy says, pulling her toward their white SUV.

She wriggles out of his grip. “It does matter. He won’t let anyone drive his Ferrari. Not me. Not my mom. So if he’s letting you drive it, then there must be a reason.”

“Such as?” I don’t know why I feel the need to play her game. I just defended her to Murphy, and this is the thanks I get?

“My parents have been happily married for thirty years. Don’t mess with that.”

“I’m not. I think I make both of them happier than they were before me.” I wink.

Murphy bites his lips to hide his amusement.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Blair scoffs.

I hold up the registration. “I’m just putting this in the glove compartment, not going for a joyride.”

She deflates, dropping her gaze in embarrassment.

“Just say you’re sorry, and let’s go,” Murphy says.

“You don’t have to apologize. My dad cheated on my mom.” I pivot and continue toward the garage. “I’m not the woman who sleeps with another woman’s husband.”

At least, that’s not the plan.