“I just didn’t sleep well.” I haven’t slept well all week, wondering how to tell Wilder about his father, promising myself I’d do it tomorrow. Roman has kept up his end of the bargain to give me space and time to sort this out, yet my end of that remains unfulfilled. Meanwhile, he’s living at the bottom of my garden. Walking around the tiny house in shorts and little else. I think the man has an aversion to T-shirts.
Yeah, okay, so I do more than worry how to tell Wilder. I also watch Roman from the porch like a big old pervert. And I think about him. About how it felt to be under him. I hate myself for it, but I can’t help it. It’s like the parts of me that have long been dormant have suddenly woken from their long hibernation, and they’re in charge of the bus. The bus wants to have sex with him.
“Story checks out.”
Jenner’s words snap me back to the moment. Replaying our conversation in my head, I glower his way because that was neither helpful nor a compliment.
“You could do with a little concealer is all I’m saying. Maybe a little blush.”
I consider pulling the pen from the band of my ponytail and jabbing him with it. “I’m not taking appearance advice from the man who wore double denim yesterday.” I pull back a little to get a better look at him. “Have you had more highlights?”
“You noticed,” he says with a slight preen feeding his hand through his hair.
“I’m surprised you can do that with all that hairspray.”
“What can I say? I am a slave to my George Michael phase. Anyhoo, I came in to say there’s a queue. A little help out front would be great,” he says, bouncing straight. “That is, if you can spare us the time.”
“Already?” I complain, glancing down at my wristwatch, simultaneously pushing back my chair. “It’s a little early for the afternoon rush.” Frustration shimmers on the surface of my words. “Why didn’t you say that when you came in?”
“Well, excuse me for showing a little friendly concern.”
“If I go out there and people are helping themselves . . .”
“Oh, I know they won’t be.” Jenner sashays along the hallway unconcerned, his oversized pink shirt swaying like sails in a breeze over his jeans. At the curtains, he parts the beads to usher me through. “Because the hot stuff they both wanted wasn’t on offer. At least, until now.”
My heart sinks to my shoes because there, on the opposite side of the counter, stand Drew and Roman.
“I am going to kill you.” I pat my palm on the centre of Jenner’s chest. Then I might kill Roman. What part of call you later did he not understand?
“You gonna hide my body in the kitchen? Cook me to dispose of the evidence?”
“No, because I don’t eat assholes.”
“It’s 2022. People eat ass.” I feel my expression twist. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, honeybun.”
There really is no answer to that. Not one for the current audience, anyway.
“Hey.” I think about trying on a smile as I step up to the counter but can’t quite muster it. “What can I do for you?” I keep my expression open as I glance at Drew, then give Roman the kind of look that I hope says nope, not doing you! Even if I really, really want to. Even if just glancing his way results in an X-rated slide show of images in my head. Drew is a nice man—a nice-looking man. But Roman has the kind of good looks that turn heads, halt hearts, and spawn a whole world of dirty thoughts. He also says the kind of things that make a girl want to smother him. Sometimes by sitting on his face. But as he holds out his hand, ceding service to Drew in a very civilised fashion, I force those very tempting images from my head.
But then he has to go and spoil it all by adding, “Age before beauty.”
It’s like he enjoys making it hard for me to be civil to him sometimes.
Drew ignores him, being the only grown-up on that side of the counter. And he was very grown up when I’d called him Sunday morning (the morning after the night before, just not our night before), figuring I owed him an explanation for the man who’d announced he was my husband. Given the complexity of the situation, (vis-à-vis the lies I’ve told) I made myself a list of points to cover, the things I probably should and shouldn’t say. It went a little like this:
Apologise for not telling him about Roman.
Give a brief history, stick to the truth when possible.
I was mostly truthful; I told him we’d had a brief relationship and a hasty marriage. I just happened not to mention it all happened in one night.