Page 41 of The Illusion of Power (Passion and Politics #1)
His jaw drops. “It’s an option. Of course, it’s an option!”
I shake my head subtly at Selene. Her lips part in a pretty, bewildered sort of pout as she looks between us, trying to process the sudden appearance of our less serious sides. She’s never seen them before, just like we’ve never seen the side of her that concedes easily, gleefully.
“Can I have two cookies?” she asks between a laugh that sends warmth flooding my chest.
“Absolutely.”
Cal’s eyes are two pools of adoration as he adds a spoon to the only bowl with ice cream inside it and passes it to me. I place the still-warm cookies on top and extend it to Selene.
Her fingertips brush against my hand as she takes it from me, and a slow, liquid heat trails down my spine at the contact. “Thank you,” she murmurs sweetly.
“You’re welcome.”
She waits until Cal and I have fixed our desserts and are seated again to take her first bite. Once again, the air around us is filled with the sounds of her enjoyment, sparking a desire in me to do nothing but feed her, not just food but more.
To fill her up with love.
To nourish her with the kindness and attention she’s so clearly being starved of in her marriage.
She’s been playing the role of the happy wife well, but I know better, even if no one else does.
I know what a woman who is having her heart, mind, and soul taken care of looks like, and that’s not Selene. Not when she’s around Aubrey.
Cal and I could get her there, I think to myself, not even bothering to fight off the ridiculous notion as I bite into a cookie and the nutty flavors of browned butter and semi-sweet chocolate explode on my tongue.
My mind races with all the things we could do for Selene, what we could give her, what she could give us, while she and Cal talk.
Their voices float around me, and I soak in the beauty of the blended melodies, appreciating his deep rasp and her soft lilt as they discuss the technique required to make a cookie with crisp edges and a gooey center.
For the most part, I stay quiet, just enjoying the easy flow of conversation, but when dessert is done and Selene insists on helping us clean up the kitchen, I find my voice again.
“You know there’s a dishwasher, right?” I ask, eyeing her with thinly veiled wonder as she fills the freshly cleaned sink with hot, soapy water. Steam billows around her, obscuring her features a bit, but not enough for me to miss the scrunch of her nose.
“I know, but I grew up hand-washing dishes. Old habits die hard, I guess.”
“So you never use the dishwasher?”
“Never,” she says, scooping up all the utensils and placing them in the sink.
The water has to be close to scalding, but she doesn’t even flinch as she plunges her hands into it.
“Even though I hate the feeling of food floating around in the water—” she shudders at the thought.
“—and the dishwasher is quicker, and more efficient.”
“It also uses less water.”
“I know. I told my mama the same thing when cleaning the kitchen became my sole responsibility. She laughed in my face and told me to get to scrubbing. Didn’t matter that we had a fully functional dishwasher.”
“One of my foster moms told me I was the dishwasher. That’s what her kids called me until I moved out a month later.”
Cal is behind me, wiping down the counters and the stove, but I know he’s tuned in to us, know that he’s paying attention to the conversation. His surprise is palpable when those words leave my mouth.
“I didn’t realize you grew up in foster care,” Selene says.
“It’s not something I talk about much.”
Or at all, I add silently. The list of people who I freely discuss my upbringing with has only ever had two names on it: Cal and Diana. But now, I guess, there are three.
“That must have been difficult for you. The lack of stability. Being on the margins of existing family structures, trying to find your place in established dynamics when your world was always changing.”
Her words are a perfect encapsulation of the struggles I faced during my formative years.
For anyone else, they might have been too honest, too straightforward, but not for me and not from her.
They hit me right in the center of my chest, all the more poignant because of how intently she’s looking at me.
“I survived.”
“Yes, you did,” she agrees, a degree of pride woven through the words as she turns her attention back to the dishes.
Unable to pass up an opportunity to be close to her, I move over to the sink and start to rinse the items she’s already washed.
“Thank you,” she says, directing her gratitude at me for what feels like the millionth time today. No matter how frequently those two words come, I never get tired of hearing them from her.
“No problem.”
We stand shoulder to shoulder, working through the dishes by category.
Utensils first. Then her wine glass and our cups, followed by the bowls and plates.
She resets the water before washing the cookware, and I dry it all, handing it off to Cal to put away once he’s done sweeping the floor.
When everything is clean, Selene washes out the sink again and dries down the counter around it, signaling the end of this shared moment of domesticity.
“I should get back to my speech.”
My lips part on an attempt at protest, but Cal silences me with a hand on my shoulder.
His fingers dig into the muscle of my shoulder as he speaks. “And we should do one more perimeter sweep and check on the officers outside.”
Selene’s eyes move over the point of contact, but just like earlier when we were holding hands, her face gives nothing away. She steps back, preparing to turn on her heel to leave us.
“Goodnight, Cal. Goodnight, Beck.”
I watch the sway of her hips as she goes, hating every step that takes her away from me. “Goodnight, Selene.”
“Don’t stay up too late,” Cal adds, his soft command floating down the hall after her.