“I can get it myself.” He lifts his chin toward the second floor. “Go. Take your shower.”
“Right. I’ll only be a minute.”
Gah. This mundane exchange has left me feeling so frazzled that need a drink. I grab myself an insulated wine tumbler and splash some wine in it, then head upstairs before I can say anything else ridiculous. I go into the master bedroom, lock the door, and lean against it, raising the tumbler to suck down a long drink of the cold wine.
“This was a bad idea,” I say out loud. “And also, why in the hell am I talking to myself?”
Thankfully, ten minutes in the shower makes me feel slightly better and more ready to face Striker again. After standing under the hot water, rinsing away the sweat and my embarrassment, I pad back out into the bedroom wrapped in a towel and contemplate what clothes to slip into. I find myself wanting to look good for him, which irritates me I even think about putting some makeup on.
That’s ridiculous. He’s not a date, for God’s sake. Just stop it and put on what you’d normally wear to hang out at home.
Yoga pants and a T-shirt it is, then. Though I admit, I choose a T-shirt that’s fitted, and definitely put on a flattering bra under it. As casual as I’m trying to be, letting the girls hang loose is a bridge too far. I pull my damp hair up into a messy bun on top of my head. My feet slide into a pair of slippers that cover up the fact that I could use a pedicure.
Good enough. Now stop fussing.
As I descend the stairs, a thump and a loud bark from the living room tells me Bert is in there playing. I go to the doorway, and find Striker on his knees, the two of them wrestling with a rope toy. It amazes me how quickly Bert has taken to this near-stranger. He and Mark never played like this. Then again, Mark never really wanted to.
Striker hasn’t noticed me yet as he tugs and roughhouses with my dog. His eyes crinkle as he laughs and tussles with Bert, his expression completely transformed from the intense, watchful man I’m used to. Right now, he almost seems like someone who doesn’t have a care in the world. My heart squeezes at the same time my skin starts to tingle. A wave of desire hits me hard, tinged with a longing that’s just bordering on painful. I must make a noise, because Striker looks up. His eyes meet mine, but move downward, taking in all of me at once.
“Bert here was in the kitchen, looking at me like he wanted to be fed,” he says, his voice going gruff. “I didn’t want to rummage through your stuff, so I figured I’d play with him for a bit.”
The way he’s staring at me right now makes my heart thud in my chest. “It is his supper time,” I manage. “I totally forgot. I’ll go take care of that now.”
Bert understands English when it suits him, so he immediately lets go of the rope toy and comes bounding after me. I go to the pantry where his food is and scoop him out his ration. Once he’s happily scarfing it down, I call out to Striker, who I presume is still in the living room. “I thought I’d just make us some pasta, if that works for you.”
“That’s fine,” he says. I turn to see him standing at the kitchen island. “Whatever you have on hand. Hey, while you’re doin’ that, do you mind if I look around? I didn’t wanna do that without your permission, but it would help if I knew the layout of your house and grounds a little better. Get a sense of where the points of entry are, and all that.”
“Of course,” I say automatically, relieved at not having to make small talk with him while I’m cooking. Even though I’m the one who invited him in, my introvert self is a nervous, self-conscious mess with him around.
“Come on, boy. Wanna come help me do recon?” he says to Bert, who has already wolfed down his kibble. My dog is only too happy to follow him out.
For the next twenty minutes or so, I hear the two of them wandering around the house, first downstairs and then upstairs, and then finally outside in the backyard. My pulse speeds up a bit when I think of Striker in my bedroom, but I shove that thought from my mind and concentrate on making dinner: a simple angel hair pasta with some pesto and a baked chicken breast on the side, which I do quickly in the convection oven.
Striker comes back inside through the back door, Bert on his tail. “Nice place,” he remarks. “Like bein’ in a home and garden magazine.”
“Not as nice as it used to be. We used to have a gardener, and a woman who would come in to clean twice a week. I have a black thumb, and I’m not much for housekeeping, either.”
“How come you don’t hire ‘em back?”
“I can’t afford it,” I say bluntly. “The mortgage is a lot for just one person.”
“Even a lawyer?”
“A family lawyer in my position doesn’t make as much money as you’d think.”
Striker considers this. “How come you don’t sell this place, then?”
“You’re very blunt, aren’t you?” I observe wryly.
“Yeah. Guess I am.”
I sigh, then reach into the refrigerator to refill my wine glass. “The divorce isn’t final yet. In fact, the paperwork hasn’t been filed. Until then, everything is sort of up in the air.”
“Why haven’t you filed the paperwork?”
“Like I told you, our separation isn’t public knowledge. Mark is concerned about how it will affect his business and his reputation.”
Striker scrutinizes me. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Are you worried about how it will look?”
I exhale. “No. I just want it to be over.”
He arches a brow. “So, file the paperwork.”
I pinch my lips together, raise the glass of wine to my lips. “It’s not that simple.”
“Why not? Are you hoping the two of you will get back together?”
The question takes me by surprise, and I choke on my wine. I start to cough, wheezing for breath and grabbing for a paper towel so I can wipe my eyes of the tears streaming down my face.
“Oh, my God!” I gasp when I can finally speak. “You have no idea how much I do not want to get back together with Mark!”
Striker has been watching me to make sure my spluttering doesn’t turn into something more serious. Now, he considers me with something almost like sympathy. “That bad?” he asks.
“Let’s just say marriage was a definite disappointment.” I clear my throat again, dab at my eyes a final time. “It was not for me, apparently.”
“So… why do you hold on to the house?”
Just then, the timer for the chicken goes off.
“Dinner’s ready,” I say brusquely. “Just give me a minute to plate everything.”
I never use the formal dining room anymore, so I serve us at the kitchen island. I pull one of the stools over to my side so I’m facing him as we eat. Thankfully, for the moment Striker seems to have let go of the subject of my former marriage.
“Hey, I noticed that picture in the living room of a kid and an older guy standing in front of an old Corvette,” he says between bites. “Is that you?”
My mind instantly flashes on the framed picture he’s talking about. It’s a cherry red Corvette convertible, with orange flames painted on the sides. It’s sitting on one of the bookshelves that flank the fireplace. “It is. That’s me and my dad. He had a thing for classic cars.”