Page 48 of Not You Again
After the pizzas are out of the oven, Andie watches as I take a bite of hers. The dough is somehow tough and raw at the same time. The marinara is bitter and acidic. I force a smile as I swallow the bite.
“Delicious,” I lie, giving her a thumbs up.
She snorts. “Liar.”
“The cheese is great,” I insist.
“It’s no secret I’m not a good cook,” she says before taking a sip of wine. “Not the housewife-y type.”
“I don’t need a housewife.” I set the abomination of a pizza slice down and wipe my hands on a napkin. “I just need you, sweet potato.”
She tosses her napkin at me and rolls her eyes.
I snatch her hand off the table and begin to massage it the way I know she likes. “Thanks for not poisoning me.”
“I can’t kill you. Who would give me hand massages?”
“Nice to know you need me for something.” We both smile, suddenly light, and she lets me take care of her hands. “And please, never cook for me again.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONEANDIE
Kit only owns three suits: one navy, one charcoal, and one black. To say I’m surprised it’s that few would be an understatement. He wears them to work every single day; I just assumed he would own at least a closet’s worth. I stare at the suit he’s chosen for today hanging on the closet door—it’s a classic navy, with a white button-down and a simple red tie.
The pants are wrinkled from the move over here. I sip on my mug of coffee, trying desperately to ignore the cameras over my shoulder. When they said they’d be filming every waking hour, they meant it. They want footage of us at our married best—brushing our teeth and making coffee and generally tiptoeing around each other in the mornings.
At least they’re not forcing me to talk to him. He’s in the shower, and that would be awkward. For all kinds of reasons.
After the pizza disaster last night, he offered to massage my hands before bed. Selfishly, knowing his day was long too, I took him up on it. My whole body shimmered as he worked lotion into my skin, and I held my breath when he slid my wedding ring back on. It took every ounce of self-control I possessed to not climb into his lap and thank him for his effort. This morning, I can’t seem to look him in the eye without thinking about it.
And after his confession about what’s going on with his mom, I don’t have it in me to wall him off. He’d been so close to me, and the buttons on his shirt were so perfectly undone around the notch in his throat. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to kiss him, to take it too far.
That part of our relationship has always worked. And well.
But he said his mom wanted him to apply for the show so she could see him settled before she died. He’s been vague about how dire her diagnosis is, but it doesn’t matter. His mom wants to see him with a happy wife, and the more time I spend with him, the more I think he wants that life, too. And I robbed him of that option when I said I do.
Then he had to go and set the coffee maker to go off this morning. My tablet sat next to my favorite mug on the counter, fully charged.
I don’t know what to do with these emotions rising in my throat. All I know is I’m officially on dangerous ground, caring about what happens to Kit and his mom. I’m worried about what will happen to me, too.
I set my coffee on the dresser and flick on my handheld steamer. My skirt needs some attention after the move too. Kit’s still in the bathroom when I finish smoothing out the wrinkles in the silk, and my steamer still has plenty of water in it, so I take a few minutes to steam his pants too. They’re already hanging up; it’s easy enough to move from one garment to the other.
Kit emerges from the bathroom, towel slung low on his hips, shameless in front of the cameras, just as I start on the second pant leg. He pauses when he sees me messing with his clothes, then leans against the wall, a smirk on his face. “Are you ironing my clothes?”
I roll my eyes. “Steaming. They’re wrinkled.”
“That’s very domestic of you.” His eyes sparkle with amusement, and he crosses his arms over his chest.
I shoot him a sharp look through a puff of steam. “Why do you only own three suits?”
He shrugs. “I travel for work. Three suits are easy to take with me.”
As I reach the hem of his pants, I notice a loose thread. I hand him the steamer and flick open the decorative wooden box on the dresser to retrieve a tiny pair of scissors. This hem has seen better days. Only three suits means he wears them all the time, and if he’s had them for years … even the most well-made suits have their limits. As far as I can tell, this is a department store basic, not a high-end designer garment.
Almost all of his shirts are beginning to pill around the collars, and every one of them has a loose thread here and there, or a button about to pop off. The man gives new meaning to minimalism. And I mean he has to be a minimalist, because if he lives and works at the fucking Colonnade, he can afford a new shirt.
I snip the offending thread from the hem of his pants. “You only have five oxfords.”
“What’s your point?” He frowns.