Page 49 of Timelessly Ours
With firm, steady hands, she stretches them out for me. “These are prescription. It’s for anxiety.”
Slowly, I take them from her, my eyes flicking back to hers.
“There’s exactly twenty in there,” she says, mechanically. “Count ‘em.”
“I don’t need to. But I can if that’s…what you need…I will.” I want to help her, but I need her to tell me how.
“No. If I need them, which I haven’t in a while, I’ll need you to give me one—just one.”
Understanding settles and I nod. “Of course.” I grip the bottle and look back at her. “Am I the reason you need…”
Her eyes flash. “No. It’s not you.” She closes her eyes. “The other night, I thought I—hurt her—out there.” She opens them and lifts her chin. “But I didn’t. I know that now.” She looks down at the bottle in my hands. “These are supposed to help in case…”
I pull her into my arms vigorously. “Honey, you didn’t—you couldn’t."
She nods against my chest, letting herself go for a moment that’s way too brief before pushing me away and grabbing an empty mug.
“How many sugars?” she asks, her voice steady, like the last three minutes didn’t happen.
I don’t push. She doesn’t need that. “One, please.”
She moves back to her batter and I know she’s no longer paying attention to the mix. I step behind her, unintentionally towering over her small frame as she struggles to smooth the lumps with the whisk. “Do you mind?” I ask softly, taking the whisk from under her fingers.
I don’t miss the goosebumps along her arms before she steps aside. “Be my guest. I’ve made it four times... can’t seem to get it right.”
“It’s not you. It’s the whisk.”
“Is it breaking up with me?” she asks, looking up at me for what seems like the first time in forever.
“’Fraid so, but you’re better off.” I reach for the sterling silver serving spoon. “A rubber whisk won’t help the clumps. I use this to smear along the bowl. And if that doesn’t work, a tinge more water or milk.”
I smooth out the batter and reach for the scoop spoon, handing it back over to her, which she accepts with hidden appreciation.
“Ding dong.”
I release a breathy groan at the shrill voice coming from the front door and wait until my ex-wife finds us in the kitchen.
“For the last time, Claire, it doesn’t count if you say it, you need to ring the fucking bell.”
“Oh hush and drink your coffee.” She waves me off but her eyes land tauntingly on Nicole and I instantly want to move in front of her.
“Oh, hello, Mrs. Collins.”
I grit my teeth and decide to correct Nicole later. Even though Claire never bothered to change her last name back to her maiden name, because it’s “better for her professional image” to still be associated with me, doesn’t mean Nicole should have to use it.
“Oh good, Angel is here?”
“No,” I say dryly. “Why are you here?”
Frowning at Nicole, who smartly pretends not to notice, my ex-wife shamelessly asks, “Then why is she here?”
“Maybe I’ll tell you if you try that entrance again and this time ring the bell like everyone else.”
As usual, Claire rolls her eyes at me with regard to her manners.
Nicole dries her hands on her apron, which Claire scans suspiciously. “It’s alright. I’m Rory’s new nanny, temporarily,” she adds that last part and it singes my gut.
Claire raises a brow, then turns to me. “This is a joke, right?”