Page 41 of The Homemaker (The Chain of Lakes #1)

He dries his hands, leaning against the island.

“And I”—he chuckles while shaking his head—“I feel emotionally mature for having the courage to say that to you because I’m ashamed.

It’s been eight years. You’ve spent so long overcoming everything you went through.

And I’ve moved on. Yet, when I’m with you, I’m scared out of my fucking mind that you’re—” His voice catches and his throat bobs as his eyes redden.

Chris died, but Murphy is the emotional carnage.

“I hurt you. And you think I could do it again.” I set the gloves aside.

He stares at his feet, then he nods.

“But it’s more than that. You love her.”

Another nod.

“Then it’s settled. You’ll marry Blair as planned. And in twenty years, she’ll hire you a homemaker, and you’ll not even remember my name.”

“Fuck you,” he says, missing the humor in my joke.

“I think that’s a bad idea since you’re engaged.”

“Well, that’s all I want to do.”

My jaw unhinges, but nothing comes out.

Murphy pushes off the counter and cups my face, bringing his lips so close to mine I almost whimper when he stops. His thumb traces my lower lip. “Hi,” he whispers.

Damn him.

I barely get “hi” out before he kisses me.

My mind swims, and tears burn my eyes because he’s erasing eight years with one kiss.

We’re back in his rental listening to Lesley Gore sing “Misty.” Reality goes out the door.

Life is sweeter when days are filled with oldies on vinyl and afternoon delight.

Somewhere there’s a tiny part of my brain holding on to rational thoughts, and they’re fighting to remind me of trivial things like Murphy is not mine. But the other ninety-nine percent of my mind homes in on one thing: his tongue making deliciously languid strokes against mine.

We don’t miss a beat when he lifts me onto the cold, white marble countertop.

I want this to be an alternate universe where we’re doing nothing wrong because it feels too good.

I’ve been an unsettled wanderer for eight years, because this man is the only thing in my life that has felt right since Chris died.

He begins to unbutton my dress, his mouth moving to my neck.

I close my eyes and let my head lull to the side to give him better access.

His hands give up on my buttons after three, and he snakes his hands up the skirt of my dress, curling his fingers around the waist of my panties and dragging them down my legs.

“Lie back, beautiful,” he whispers in my ear.

I have no self-control, so I do what he asks. He sets my underwear on the counter, then guides my wedged pumps to the edge. Then he kisses his way up my leg while planting his hands on my inner thighs to spread my legs wider.

My back arches and I grip his hair in anticipation.

Oh god …

He’s going too slowly. Why must he torture me? He’s … all … most … there …

“Hello?”

HOLYFUCKINGHELL

I jackknife to sitting and fly off the counter. It’s my mom coming in the back door.

Murphy is way cooler than I am. He takes my underwear and starts to slide them into his pocket.

I scowl at him, ripping them from his grip and tucking them into my dress pocket. Then I shove him and hiss, “Go!”

Working the last button to my dress, I meet my mom just before she steps into the kitchen.

“Oh.” She jerks backward. “You scared me.”

I scared her? Okay. Sure.

“What’s up?” I ask, smoothing the apron down the front of my dress.

“You weren’t answering your phone. And I couldn’t find any Advil in your bathroom.” She squints, lifting the inside of her wrist to my forehead. “Are you running a fever? Your cheeks are burning red. I definitely think you’re getting sick.”

“Uh …” I retreat a step and push her hand away. “I’m fine. I got the dish water too hot.”

She gives me a wary look.

“Hey, Krista,” Murphy says, popping back into the kitchen like he’s been somewhere else, doing only good things.

“Hi, Murphy. Listen, I’m so sorry about bringing up your rental property. I should have?—”

“Don’t sweat it.” He fills a glass with water.

“I should’ve told Blair earlier. It’s not that she didn’t know; it’s just that she recently found out.

After my dad died, I went out of my way to not look back.

Clearly, not telling Blair sooner was taking it too far. ” He smiles before sipping his water.

“Well, thank you for understanding. Listen, I won’t keep you, but my dear daughter wasn’t answering her phone. And I have a slight headache, so I need Advil, Tylenol or something like that.”

“Oh, sure. Let me see what I can find,” he says.

“No. Really, I’ll get it.” I head toward the hall bathroom, but Murphy does, too, like it takes both of us to find a bottle of pain pills.

“Your in-laws and fiancée will be back soon. Just go to your room. I’ve got this.” I flick my wrist to shoo him away just as I step into the bathroom. I find a bottle of Advil and turn, but he’s right here, blocking the doorway.

I frown. “What are we doing?” I whisper.

“You missed a button.” He reaches forward and fixes the missed button while forcing me backward and kicking the door partially shut.

“What are you?—”

He kisses me, gripping the back of my legs and lifting me onto the vanity. It’s a punishing kiss just like his hands sliding to my ass, squeezing tightly, pressing my bare core firmly against the bulge in his jeans.

God, I want him so badly I could cry.

He kisses my jaw, and I drop the bottle of pills then grip the edge of the vanity, shamelessly rocking my pelvis to grind against him.

“I hate her so much,” I say with a tight voice between labored breaths.

His mouth curls into a grin as he nips at my neck, keeping a bruising grip on my ass. “You don’t.” He thrusts his hips into me. “But I fucking love how hard you’re trying to.”

He’s right. I don’t hate Blair, but I want to because then I don’t have to hate myself so much. I’m afraid it’s too late to save my soul or his.

A nauseous feeling kills the butterflies in my tummy and extinguishes the burning need in my veins when I think about Blair wanting make-up sex later, or Murphy needing to get off after our two close encounters today .

I shove him away, hop off the vanity, and retrieve the pills from the floor.

Then I peer up at him as if everything is his fault even though it’s probably mine.

“If I make breakfast in the morning and hear Mr. Morrison say one word about how loud you and Blair were, I’m going to piss in your coffee. ”

He lifts one eyebrow.

“Understood?” I double down.

Murphy slowly brings his pointer and middle finger to his temple in a tiny salute.

I roll my lips together to keep from grinning at his gesture.

But seriously, please don’t have sex with her!

That plea stays in my head because it’s an unfair and unrealistic request, which is quite fitting for the fantasy world I like to live in with Murphy. My brain has reverted to childish behavior with its fingers shoved in its ears while chanting, “lalalalala.”