Page 5 of The Homemaker (The Chain of Lakes #1)

Chapter Five

Alice

Life is improv. There is no dress rehearsal.

I’ve mentally rehearsed this day for years, just not in this setting.

And now I wish I were invisible. But his unblinking, dark-eyed gaze screams recognition, burning beneath my skin, so I bolt into the kitchen and I allow myself a quick gasp.

That’s it, one breath in for closure. Then I exhale, releasing everything.

“Oh my god,” I whisper, pressing my hand over my chest, my heart pounding against it.

He is the fiancé of the Morrisons’ only child.

That’s it.

I close my eyes and repeat this several times to stay focused.

Don’t lose it, Alice.

I’m the hired homemaker. It’s my job and the role I’ve chosen to play. So I get back into character. Keeping my chin tucked, I straighten my apron, pin a smile to my face, and return to the dining room, despite my pounding heart making it impossible to breathe.

“If there is anything else I can get you, I’ll be in the kitchen tidying up,” I say, placing the basket of sliced sourdough bread in the center of the table with a shaky hand.

“Thank you, Alice,” Mr. Morrison says with pride.

What is Murphy doing here? These people are gloriously fucked-up. Hunter loves the horrified expression on his daughter’s face because—who hires a “homemaker?”

“What’s going on?” Blair asks, as I crane my neck to listen while setting out the blackberry sorbet to soften.

“What do you mean?” Hunter asks.

“I mean her, the homemaker. ”

“Sweetie, calm down. It’s fine. Your father just likes to get you worked up. When we hired Alice, we teasingly called her a homemaker. It’s all in good fun. She’s very helpful.”

Vera is my favorite character in this bizarre universe, playing both sides of the fence.

Hunter clears his throat. “We’re giving her a job. Paying her well. And she gets to live rent-free in the guesthouse. I thought you’d be proud of us for helping those in need.”

“Are you kidding me?” Blair’s voice shakes. “She’s an attractive white girl. How in need can she be?” She makes a valid point. “Mother has hired you a mistress.”

“Blair Ashlee Morrison, I beg your pardon.” Vera’s voice slices through the room.

“Are you sure you want to sign up for this, Murphy? My daughter will never bake bread for you.”

“I uh … need to use the restroom,” Murphy says .

The sound of his voice unearths memories that no pill can erase.

“Is everything all right, babe?” Blair asks. “Sorry. I’m not trying to start a fight with my father.”

I peek my head around the corner as she touches his arm. Murphy gives her a shaky smile. “It’s uh … fine,” he mumbles.

I jerk my head back to hide, pressing my body to the wall as he passes the kitchen on the way to the bathroom. Then I refocus on the dessert. By the time I have the cups filled with two small scoops of sorbet and garnished with mint leaves, Murphy has returned to the dining room.

“Have you always been a homemaker, Alice?” Blair asks, when I gather the empty plates and replace them with glass cups of sorbet, hands still shaking because I feel his gaze on me.

“No, Miss Morrison,” I say, clearing my throat. “But I hope your parents are happy with my performance thus far. They are a delight to work for,” I say, meaning the word performance in the most literal sense.

Mr. and Mrs. Morrison sit up a little straighter, chins an inch higher. Flattery goes a long way in the world of padded bank accounts and over-inflated egos.

“You’re doing a great job, Alice,” Vera says. “Thank you. That will be all. When you’re done in the kitchen, we won’t require anything else today.”

“What about dinner?” Hunter asks, lifting his spoon toward his mouth.

I try to keep my gaze on him, but I can tell from the corner of my eye that Blair’s fiancé isn’t touching his sorbet.

“I’ve made reservations,” Vera replies.

“Who will turn down my bed?” Now Hunter’s just toying with his wife and daughter, trolling them for a reaction.

“Excuse me?” Blair takes the bait.

I slowly slink out of the room.

“Your mom has an obsession with throw blankets and decor pillows, so Alice makes a neat pile of everything and folds down the bedding, assuring it’s smooth and tight, just how I like it.”

“Are we still talking about the bedding?” Vera asks.

“Oh my god, Mother!”

Vera and Hunter laugh while I anxiously wait for everyone to finish their dessert so I can clean up and get the heck out of here.

An hour later, the kitchen is clean, sourdough starter fed, and meals planned for the next day. Mr. Morrison has a button that needs to be repaired on his favorite shirt, but I’ll do that tomorrow, since Vera seems eager for me to leave.

“Do you remember me?”

I startle, glancing up as I remove my wedge pumps at the back door and exchange them for my leather slip-ons. My insides twist when I look at him. His shoulders seem broader, more muscular. The shadow of whiskers on his face is thicker. He’s just more everything in the best possible way.

Murphy eyes me with a forlorn expression, pain etched into his forehead, hands in his front pockets. I pause for a moment. He’s giving me a choice? My conscience chews on the agonizing decision for a few seconds.

I’m better now.

He’s engaged to my boss’s daughter .

What good can come from remembering?

I remove my apron and hang it on the brushed silver hook. “You look familiar, but I can’t quite place you.” It’s a version of the truth, a stretch. But truthfully, I don’t remember everything, like how it ended.

His brow tightens, as do my heartstrings.

“Remind me?” I say with a cruel casualness that’s unplanned but feels necessary.

He won’t remind me. Not in this house. Not while he’s in love with another woman. I hope.

“You …” He swallows hard.

My breath stays lodged in my throat, strangling my reaction to the anguish in his eyes and the deep lines of indecision on his face, but I feel the emotion, and it pains me because I never meant to hurt anyone. Until this very moment, I didn’t know for sure that he was collateral damage.

Murphy forces a smile, and it feels like pure pity. “I don’t think it was you after all. Sorry.”

His manufactured response tugs and tears at the threads of my soul. This isn’t how it was supposed to be. “I guess I must have a familiar face,” I say.

This man could send me spiraling. I should resign and run. Nothing good can come from spending the summer this close to each other. My facade will break or his pity will diminish, leaving him with nothing but an uncontrolled need to demand answers.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you around,” I say.

Despite his effort to look unaffected, I don’t miss his tiny flinch. “Yeah,” he murmurs.

Under his watchful gaze, I exit the back door.

One breath. Two breaths .

One step. Two steps.

When I’m behind the hedges, I sprint to the guesthouse.

“Hey!”

I gasp, slapping a hand over my heart when Callen grabs my wrist before I reach the door.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, eyes narrowed.

I shake my head a half dozen times. “Nothing,” I say through labored breaths.

“Why were you running?” He chuckles, turning his baseball cap around for a kiss while walking me backward into the door.

He’s here for sex. That’s our relationship. Callen is divorced, and he has two kids and a demanding job. Sex is all he’s looking for. And I’m emotionally empty most days, so sex works for me.

“How did you know I’d be done so early?” I ask as he kisses my neck.

“I didn’t. I was going to make dinner and surprise you.”

“Excuse me?” I push him away and grin. “ You were going to make me dinner?”

“Yes. Occasionally, I can be thoughtful.” He hooks his arm around my waist again and continues kissing my neck. “It’s so fucked up that they make you wear this church dress. When you sent me that picture, I thought you were joking.”

I giggle. “I like the dress. What’s messed up is they hired some sought-after landscaping guru to give his thoughts on redoing the north side of the house. I saw the bill. They paid fifteen thousand dollars just for his opinion.”

“Fucking rich people.” He opens the door behind me, and we stumble into the single level house with hickory wood floors and modern furnishings, a smaller version of the main house .

I lose both shoes before we pass the sofa.

“Don’t you want a tour first?” I mumble between kisses.

Callen partially unbuttons the front of my dress, kissing the swell of my breasts by the time we reach the hallway.

“Kitchen. Hall. Bedroom,” he says. “Got it.”

We make it two more steps before his jeans are unfastened, one more step before my underwear dangles around one ankle. And then he’s inside me.

I toss his hat to the floor, rubbing a hand over his buzzed, blond hair before closing my eyes and clawing at his firm backside as he pins me to the wall.

Then … I think of Murphy Paddon.

Callen Langston coaches lacrosse at the university, is obsessed with true crime podcasts, and knows a freakish amount of random information. He’s fun and easy. I’ve never met his kids, but when I mention them, he beams with fatherly pride.

After dropping out of college my junior year, spending fourteen months in a mental hospital, and seven years working odd jobs to find inspiration, I’ve given up on love and a successful career. But I take great joy in other people’s lives.

Some people are participants. Others, like me, are spectators.

“What was that about?” Callen asks as we put our clothes back on.

I exchange my dress for shorts and a tank top. “What was what all about? ”

“Sex with you has been good, really good.” His cheeks flush as he buttons his jeans. “But that was next-level.”

I pull the tank top over my head. “I don’t know. When you said you were here early to make me dinner, it just …”

“Made you horny?” he chuckles.

“Something like that.” I grab his shirt and kiss him. “When are you going to Disney?” I pad my bare feet into the kitchen for an orange Olipop soda.

“Next week. Are you good with it?”

I pop the top of the can. “I think it’s cool that you and your ex get along well enough to take the kids on vacation together.”

“Lindee and Hawley.”

I narrow my eyes. “Huh?”

“You never say my kids’ names. My daughter is Lindee. She’s five, and my son is Hawley. He’s seven. You always refer to them just as kids. ”

“Thought we were keeping it casual.” I sip my drink.

“Alice, do you not like kids?”

“I like them.” I chuckle.

“If I were standing in line for something, I could easily strike up a conversation with a stranger, and it could lead to me revealing my kids’ names and ages. I’m not asking you to meet them or be their godmother.” Callen laughs, filling a glass with water.

“Lindee and Hawley are great names.”

He sips his water then nods. “Thanks. They’re great kids. Now, if you want to share something about your personal life, I’m happy to listen in a very casual way.”

“Thanks.” I smile.

“Thanks? That’s it? ”

“What do you want me to say? I told you I didn’t finish college, and I’ve worked odd jobs for the past seven years.”

“But you never said why you dropped out of school.”

I sit on the barstool at the counter. “Why does anyone drop out of school?”

“Failing grades. Lack of interest or money. Life-changing event. Job offer that doesn’t require a degree. There are a lot of reasons. What was yours?”

I drum my fingers on the side of the can. “A friend died, and I lost focus and desire to continue with school.”

He eyes me for a beat before slowly shaking his head. “I’m sorry to hear about your friend.”

“Thanks.”

“See, that wasn’t so hard.”

“No. It wasn’t. Do you want to tell me more about your kids?”

He sits on the stool beside me so my knees slide between his spread legs. “No. We’ll take it slow. Names and ages are good for today.”

I giggle. “Stop. Point made. I can handle it.”

“Let’s talk about your job. Aside from free rent, do you like it?”

“Yeah. So far. It’s too early to say, but they’re fascinating, and it’s oddly satisfying.”

“Fascinating? Satisfying?”

“Mmm. Yes. The wealthy live such different lives. They have time to worry about stupid shit like politics and if the hedges need to be trimmed one or two inches. And they have the luxury of fixing everything with money, including things that are less than perfect in their marriage. I feel like a missing link. The glue that could hold their marriage together. Like the opposite of the mistress that tears happy couples apart.”

“That’s weird.”

I sip my orange drink then laugh. “I think the less Vera resents doing things she doesn’t like to do, and the less Hunter resents her not doing what he thinks a wife should do, the less they fight. Boom! Happy marriage.”

“Spoken like someone who has never been married.”

“Spoken like someone who is no longer married. You haven’t told me why your marriage ended.”

He opens his mouth.

I shake my head. “Nope. I don’t want to know. That’s more than you’d tell a stranger in line.”

“God I love your fear of commitment.” Callen slides off the barstool and kisses my cheek. “Your eagerness to screw.” He finishes his water and sets the glass in the sink. “And your complete lack of neediness. You’re a fucking dream, Alice.”

“I do my best.”

My thoughts drift to Murphy. He must think I’m a fucking nightmare.