Page 35 of The Homemaker (The Chain of Lakes #1)

Chapter Thirty-Five

Alice

There is logic and love. But they can’t coexist.

“Thank you,” Vera says when I deliver a small arrangement of roses to her office off the primary bedroom suite on the second floor.

“You’re welcome.” I smile, replacing the vase from several days ago with this new one.

She pulls off her black-framed readers and sets them next to her computer. I don’t know what she does in her office on her computer. Wedding plans, I suppose.

“I’m not talking about the flowers. Although they are simple and elegantly arranged, just as I like them.” She offers an approving smile.

“Oh?” I smooth my hands over the white apron.

“Whatever book you’ve been reading to my husband. Well, it’s working.” She smirks, a blush blooming along her cheeks.

My eyebrows lift, and I laugh. “Well, that’s good to hear.”

“Keep up the good work.”

“I will.” I take several steps toward the door and pause. “Could I make dinner early tonight. I have somewhere I’d like to be at seven. If not, it’s?—”

“Of course, dear.” She slides her glasses back onto her nose without asking me anything about my request.

“Thanks,” I murmur.

When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I hear a “Psst,” and I stop, arching my back to look behind me into Hunter’s study.

“Can you help me?” he asks in a hushed tone.

I step into his study, eyeing Murphy on the sofa, his ankle resting on the opposing knee. My gaze ping-pongs between the two men.

“Close the door,” Hunter says, so I do. “Murphy’s trying to show me how to dance so I can surprise Vera. But it’s too weird dancing with a dude.”

I suck my lips between my teeth and nod slowly.

He puts a record on his turntable.

“Uh, where’s Blair? I’m not the best dancer,” I say.

“She’s getting a pedicure and massage,” Hunter says just as Eric Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight” plays. “I just need to see it in motion.” He turns and eyes Murphy who lumbers from the sofa and gives me a shy smile while holding out his hand to me.

I look at Mr. Morrison, and he gestures with his head for me to take Murphy’s hand, so I do. His other hand slides to my lower back .

“Don’t step on my feet,” he whispers.

I bite back my grin as he leads.

“Op … sorry.” I cringe, stepping on his foot two seconds later.

“Are you counting?” Hunter asks Murphy.

“I’m not. But if you need to count, go for it.”

“Not helpful,” he grumbles. “So eight counts to the right in a sway then eight to the left, or should I dip her?”

Murphy dips me then lifts our hands and turns me in a slow circle. “If you feel like dipping and twirling, it’s never a bad idea.”

I can’t keep a straight face.

“Goddammit! Who’s calling me?” Hunter checks his phone. “I have to take this. Just keep going. Give me five minutes. I’ll be back, and we can start from the top again.” He lifts the turntable needle to play the song from the beginning. “Hello?” he answers his phone and exits the room.

Murphy narrows his eyes again when I step on his toes—his naked toes because Hunter must have dragged him in here spur of the moment in shorts, a T-shirt, and bare feet.

He grabs my shoulders to stop me from moving.

Then he crouches before me and unbuckles the ankle strap of one shoe while his other hand rests on my calf before removing my shoe.

I hold my breath.

He repeats with the other shoe, but this time he leaves his hand on my calf.

My heart drums, pulse thundering in my ears, sliding one foot out and then the other. His head remains bowed as his hand inches higher, behind my knee.

And a little higher .

My lips part, eyelids closing in a heavy blink. There is no part of my body that doesn’t crave his touch.

This is so wrong.

My fingers curl into tight fists, keeping them from reaching for his hair to pull him to me.

He audibly swallows and stands. I force my breath to leave my lungs in tiny, controlled, and muted increments.

“Better.” He grins, standing and guiding my arms around his neck.

Better? Is he joking? I’m sweating from head to toe.

I can’t tear my gaze from his, as I silently demand he explain what just happened. But he says nothing. Eyes intense, a little dark.

After swaying for a bit, Murphy takes my hand and twirls me again, breaking the intensity of the moment. I lift onto my toes and pirouette dramatically.

He grins. “Nice.”

I giggle, stepping back into his embrace, pretending nothing happened—falling into character. “I don’t know why you think I’m good at everything.”

Murphy hums. “Good question.” His eyes shift, inspecting my face before stopping on my lips, stirring the flames again. I step on his toes again because I’m the worst dancer when he’s looking at me like we’re back in time, dancing on the creaky wood floor in his rental.

He’s engaged.

I have Callen.

If those two reasons aren’t enough to step away from his embrace, there are at least a hundred other good ones.

As if he can read my thoughts, Murphy releases me. The song is almost over anyway. He pulls in a long breath through his nose, lacing his hands behind his neck while eyeing me.

“Alice,” he says my name like it’s bitter coming off his tongue.

The guilt in his eyes spurs me to put on my shoes.

Then I smooth my hand down my ponytail and pin a cordial smile on my face.

“Tell Mr. Morrison I’ve requested the evening off, so I have to keep working if I want to leave early.

He can plant his feet and sway with Vera. It’s the thought that counts.”

Murphy eyes me, the lines of regret along his forehead deepening. Without a word, he slowly nods, releasing his arms to his sides.

Whoever tried to simplify love into boy meets girl, they fall in love, the end, should be shot. Real life is more complicated. Love is fucking messy. We try to rationalize it and make rules. We take vows and oaths like our hearts don’t have a say.

I can be logical or I can be in love. But I’m certain I can’t do both.

Not now.

So I’ll choose logic because I destroyed Murphy once by choosing love. I can’t do it again.

I spend my evening at the playhouse, grinning uncontrollably and even shedding a few cathartic tears.

Where would I be today had I followed my passion for acting instead of following in my mother’s footsteps?

I never would have met Chris. He’d probably be alive.

And I wouldn’t know Murphy Paddon. That world is hard to imagine.

When I return home, there’s a suitcase inside my front door, but it’s not mine.

“Hello?” I call.

Nothing.

I check the name on the tag.

Krista Yates

“Mom?” I shuffle toward the back door, but she’s not out back. Perhaps she went for a walk around the lake.

The real question is, what is she doing here? I text her.

Where are you?

She replies.

Visiting with your neighbors.

Neighbors?

“Oh no …” I cringe. She’s at the main house.

I head straight to the back door and let myself in, slipping off my canvas sneakers and adjusting the belt of my fitted denim jeans. Then I find everyone on the second-floor covered balcony, sipping drinks.

“Hello,” Vera says when I open the door. “Come have a seat. What can I get you to drink?”

“Sweetie,” Mom says, eyes wide as she stands, like she’s waiting for me to throw my arms around her and celebrate her surprise visit.

“I’m fine. Thanks, Vera.” I return a tiny smile and soft nod while turning down her drink offer.

“Who’s this girl?” Hunter winks at me as I skirt around the perimeter of chairs to reach my mom. “I don’t think I’ve seen you with your hair down since the day we met.”

Keeping a smile plastered to my face, I release a tiny laugh. From the loveseat on the opposite side of the balcony, Blair eyes me, her legs draped over Murphy’s lap, her hand possessively on his chest.

“What an unexpected surprise,” I say to my mom through clenched teeth as we hug.

“Is there any other kind of surprise?”

Everyone laughs.

“I suppose not.” I sit in the swivel chair next to hers.

“I knocked on their door, looking for you of course, and the next thing I know, Vera invites me in for wine. Now I see why you love this house manager position.”

Vera and Hunter beam with pride.

Blair clears her throat. “Actually, your daughter is a homemaker.”

Murphy shoots her a look and squeezes her leg.

“What?” Blair shrugs. “It’s a niche job. I respect that.”

“What’s the difference?” Mom asks.

“Just semantics,” I say. “We should get out of their hair, Mom.”

“No rush,” Vera says. “How was your night off?”

“Yes,” Mom chimes in. “Where did you go?”

“I uh, watched a play at the playhouse.” I stare at the mesmerizing flames of the gas fire pit table, but I feel Murphy’s gaze on me.

“Alice used to love acting,” Mom said. “She played Hermia in A Midsummer Night’s Dream in high school. But after graduation, she chose a more stable path like me and studied engineering.”

“You’re an engineer?” Hunter asks .

“Yes,” Mom answers. “A biomedical engineer.”

“Alice, you took this job but you’re an engineer?” Vera gawks at me, mouth agape.

“No.” I shake my head.

“She was in a car accident, and afterward she decided to go down a different life path.” Mom reaches toward me, resting her hand on my arm.

I lift my gaze to accept all the pity glances, and no one disappoints.

Thanks, Mom .

“Oh my gosh. I’m sorry to hear that.” Vera squeezes Hunter’s hand as if to remind him that later they will have to play a guessing game as to why I dropped out of school after a car accident.

“Were you hurt?” Blair asks.

Again, Murphy nudges her, and again she frowns like it’s a fair question.

I lift my arm and point to the scar on it. “Just a cut on my arm from escaping the vehicle that sank to the bottom of the river with my fiancé. The rest of the injuries were emotional.” I shrug. “Nothing a year in a psych ward couldn’t take care of.”

Silence.

Mom’s lips part, and she tries to form a smile with them, but her sudden uneasiness steals her ability to move. She started it.