Page 38 of The Homemaker (The Chain of Lakes #1)

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Murphy

Honesty is an okay policy, but it’s nuanced.

“You’ve never looked more handsome,” Blair says as the tailor pins minor adjustments to my suit for the wedding.

“What about me?” Hunter asks, standing a few feet away in his half-sewn suit.

“Dear, you already know you look handsome. This isn’t your first suit,” Vera says dismissively while focusing on her phone.

“This isn’t my first suit either,” I say.

“It’s your first big boy suit,” Blair says before sipping her wine. “And don’t give me that look. I’m just stating the obvious. You know I fell in love with your jeans and wrinkled T-shirt.”

“The suit I have still fits me. And I’m a big boy, so …”

The tailor clears his throat and mumbles, “I don’t think it counts if it’s off the rack.”

“The hell it doesn’t,” I mumble. “Ouch,” I grit through my teeth.

“Sorry, sir,” he says.

He’s not sorry. He poked me on purpose.

“Your owliness is a real ick, babe.” Blair wrinkles her nose.

“My owliness? And what is an ick?”

“I know you’re unsettled right now. But we’ll be in New York before you know it. So, can you just stop moaning and groaning about everything? It’s an ick. A turn off.”

“Oh, lord, son.” Hunter shakes his head. “Don’t be an ick. I’ve dumped too much money into a third wedding to let my daughter change her mind again .”

“Hunter!” Vera snaps.

“I’m kidding.” He tips up his chin, scratching his neck while sliding his gaze to me. “I’m not kidding,” he whispers.

“What if I have a few icks with you too,” I say to Blair.

Silence.

It’s so quiet I can hear the tailor gulp, the pin sliding through the fibers of the imported Italian fabric.

Vera presses a hand to her throat like she’s choking on her response.

Blair narrows her eyes, head cocked to the side. “Oh, really ? And what might those be?”

“Run,” Hunter whispers.

“I didn’t say I did. I just asked what if I did? Would you want me to mention them?”

“Seriously, son. Run!” Hunter says with more urgency.

Vera frowns at her husband.

“Yeah. Let’s hear them.” Blair sets her wine on the marble coaster atop the dark wood table next to the velvet sofa.

“Don’t be stupid,” the tailor whispers.

“No.” I pull back my shoulders because I’m not running out of here with my tail between my legs. “I don’t have anything to share right now. But it’s nice to know that if or when I do, you’re open to listening.”

Am I owly? Yes. Why? I think it has a lot to do with a certain homemaker.

Honest to God, I love Blair. But I can’t stop thinking about Alice.

I can’t stop wanting to touch her, feel her skin against mine.

Maybe it’s infatuation—my own moment of temporary insanity.

And as I think this, I feel terrible because everything in my head sounds selfish and insensitive.

Maybe not the tailor, but I need someone to give me sage advice. My father would have done it. He’d say something like, “Murphy, you already know everything you’ll ever need to know in life.”

I know my head hurts. My heart aches. And my instincts are shit.

There are the things that people should do in their lives. Then there is Murphy Paddon, who does the opposite. Most of the time, I regret it. But sometimes, I get it right. The odds are not in my favor.

The trip home is uncomfortable, to put it mildly.

Hunter makes me ride in front with him. When I glance back at Vera and Blair, daggers fly toward my head.

After Hunter parks in the garage, he reaches for my arm just as I open my door to get Blair’s for her.

He gives me a quick headshake. When the women disappear into the house without a backwards glance at me, he releases a deep sigh.

“Do you smoke cigars, Murphy? ”

“No.”

“Well,” he opens his door, “you do today. Come on.”

I head toward the door.

“Nope,” he says, nodding toward his Corvette. He sits in the driver’s seat and retrieves cigars from the glove compartment.

With a laugh, I sit in the front seat.

“Don’t inhale. Just enjoy the flavor then let it go.”

I light it and feel confident that I’m not inhaling. It’s when I go to release it, I realize there’s a little inhaling taking place.

Hunter laughs when I cough. “I’m sorry your dad’s not here.”

“Did Vera put you up to this? Did she ask you to sit me down and offer to be my new father figure?”

He looks at the ceiling and exhales a plume of smoke. “Yup.”

I laugh, and the grin on my face isn’t forced. No “owly” Murphy at this moment.

“I love your daughter,” I say, meaning every word.

“I know you do. But she may still change her mind.”

I nod then try not to inhale again. This time I manage to blow out without coughing.

Does it taste good? No. But sometimes we do things because it makes other people feel good.

I don’t know if Blair and I will make it to the altar and both say, “I do.” But I like Hunter.

He’s unapologetically himself, even when it’s frowned upon or offensive.

Blair hates that about him. I can respect it without agreeing with everything he says.

“Would your father have liked my daughter?” he asks.

“My dad liked everyone. He was an artist too. So he would have been drawn to Blair’s passion. ”

“She’s a good person,” he says. “I know we don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things, but I’m proud of her. We’ve tried to give her everything, but she’s always found more joy in forging her own way, achieving success on her own. She’ll be a good mother and wife.”

Again, I nod. He’s not telling me anything about Blair that I don’t already know. She’s beautiful, talented, and kind. Any man would be lucky to have her.

“So”—he takes a puff and blows it out—“what are your … what was the word? Icks?”

I chuckle. “You first.”

“Murphy, my wife hired a homemaker for me. She’s perfect.”

“Your wife or the homemaker?”

Hunter doesn’t look at me, but he smirks.

“My ick with Blair is she’s been engaged three times but never married. And I feel pretty arrogant thinking I’m different.”

“You’re confident. She needs that. Hell, she needs you to drag her to the altar by her hair if need be.”

This is the perfect example of things he says that angers Blair, but I find humorous.

I’m more laid-back than my fiancée. It’s easier for me to enjoy life without running it through a filter, dissecting everything to determine if it offends someone before I let myself laugh.

I try to tell her intention and context matters, especially with her father’s generation.

“By the way, thanks for the dance lessons. I got laid.” He holds out his fist.

Golfing and sharing inappropriate jokes are one thing, fist-bumping after he nails my future mother-in-law is another. Still, I bump his fist.

“I got laid the same night too.” I offer my fist.

He scowls at me. “Too far, Murphy. Too far.” Then he opens the door and climbs out.

I chuckle then wait a few minutes and head upstairs to see if I’m still engaged. Before I reach the main floor, Blair appears at the top of the stairs in her workout wear.

“I’m going to exercise so my body doesn’t go on your ick list.” She descends the stairs and tries to slide past me without our bodies touching. I wrap my arm around her waist to stop her.

She huffs, lip protruding in a pout.

“I’m sorry. There is no ick list. You’re perfect just the way you are.”

“Liar,” she says, rolling her eyes.

I nuzzle my face into her neck. “I’m not lying.”

“You need to shave. And you smell like cigar smoke. Yuck.” She tries to push me away.

“Wanna know a secret?” I ask.

She refuses to smile, but she stops trying to wriggle out of my hold. “What?”

“My dad used to make things out of wood. He had a lathe and carving tools in his garage. My mom resented all the hours he spent with a ‘tree stump’ instead of her. I was fascinated by it, so he taught me.”

Blair’s forehead wrinkles. “You’re a woodturner?”

I nod.

She blinks several times, face soured. “Why have you never told me this?”

“Because I don’t do it anymore. And since my dad died, I let that part of my life die too.”

“Murphy, I’m an artist. I create things out of clay. You met me at an art expo, and you never thought to mention that you’re an artist too?”

“You’re far more talented. I never wanted to sound like I was competing with you.”

Her head juts back. “Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because I told your dad that my dad would have liked you because he was an artist too.”

“So the only reason you’re telling me is because you don’t want my dad to tell me first? Jesus, Murphy. What is wrong with you?” She jerks out of my hold and continues down the stairs.

I drag a hand over my face. There is nothing I can do right today. Perhaps I should take a nap and try again tomorrow.