“I will, Mickey,” I snapped.
“Great,” he bit out, sounding like he didn’t think it was great at all. Then he continued, “Since we’re havin’ this loving conversation, please tell me you aren’t sleepin’ in that house tonight.”
That confused me so I asked, “I’m sorry?”
“You are then you’re not,” he informed me. “You’re comin’ over here and sleepin’ in my bed.”
My heart skipped a beat and my knees went weak.
“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he went on. “But you aren’t sleepin’ in paint fumes. That shit can fuck you.”
Oh God, now he was being his jerky, overbearing brand of sweet.
“I’m on my way to Lavender House,” I assured him.
“Good. So now, heads up, do what you gotta do to prepare, but I’m hanging up.”
Now he was just being a jerk.
“Don’t be a jerk, Mickey,” I snapped.
“You give me sweet, baby, you’ll get it back,” he retorted low, angry, and this was infuriatingly but indisputably outrageously sexy, which gave credence to the possibility I was a whackjob. “You ready for me to hit end?” he asked.
“I was ready five minutes ago.”
“’Bye, Amy.”
“Good-bye, Mickey.”
He hung up.
I threw my phone on the bed and it bounced on my duvet cover, which was subtle floral swirls in soft gray, porcelain blue, gentle taupe and muted apple green.
My mind conjured images of Mickey’s long, big, hard body tangled up in that duvet and I shouted, “Arrrrrgh!” before I stomped to my bathroom to get my toiletries.
*
“Mrs. McMurphy sounds like da bomb,” Cillian stated enthusiastically.
It was the next night and I was sitting at Mickey’s dining room table, a table in a dining room I had not seen on my last visit because it was through a door on the other side of the kitchen and I had not been offered a complete tour.
It was a dining room table that was a long, farm table with ladder-back chairs that had fluffy, but trimmed, navy cushions and had been laid by Aisling for her dinner party.
It was a family table at which was seated a family.
I liked it. And I liked it even though Mickey and I had barely spoken from me arriving to that moment, when we were finishing up Aisling’s delicious yellow cake with its thick layer of scrumptious chocolate buttercream frosting. This being after we finished her delicious meal of Coca-Cola cured ham and expertly seasoned sautéed potatoes.
The food was excellent, but I was with a family and I just liked that.
This time, I had things to say, carrying on the conversation with Cillian, doing my part by sharing about the folks at Dove House, to Cillian’s delight.
Mickey sat mostly silent and definitely brooding at the head, Aisling to his right, Cillian to her right at the long table that sat eight, but me, regrettably, to Mickey’s left, which meant too close for comfort.
Throughout the meal, I gamely ignored him at the same time trying to appear like I wasn’t ignoring him.
This was difficult. He was as handsome as ever and was wearing a dark blue, lightweight cotton shirt with the sleeves again rolled up. A shirt that did amazing things to his eyes.
He was also wearing jeans that were worn in but not worn out, and they fit his front, his back, and his long legs in a way I wish I could unsee because the vision of them kept popping up into my head at inappropriate times, in other words constantly.
It became less difficult because he was seated so I could no longer see his jeans.
Then it became even less difficult as I noted that Aisling was being Aisling, quiet, a little shy, solicitous, taking care of her family, but more of the former two.
I feared this was because she was not an eleven-year-old boy, who would miss the fact that Mickey and I were not speaking, but instead a fourteen-year-old girl, who wouldn’t miss it.
And I noted that she didn’t and this troubled her.
What troubled me was that I got the sense it was more. Something deeper. Something that had to do with Aisling alone and nothing to do with Mickey and me.
Something maybe to do with her mother.
“She is da bomb,” I agreed with Cillian, watching Aisling at the same time trying not to appear like I was doing it and shifting my seat back, twisting to cross my legs to the side. “Though, if she were to meet you, I’d hope she doesn’t think you’re a Nazi.”
“Me too,” Cillian replied. “Maybe, when we go with you to Dove House, I’ll dress as an Allied soldier so she won’t get the wrong idea.”
This amused me at the same time it alarmed me because he’d said “when” they went with me to Dove House.
I was about to address that when I felt something altogether too pleasant for the circumstances slinking over my legs and I felt this not after my mind conjured an image of Mickey in his jeans.
I looked to my legs then up to Mickey.
He was sitting back in his chair, one hand in his lap, one elbow on the arm of his chair, jaw resting on the backs of his curled fingers, eyes on my legs.
No, his entire attention was on my legs.
Completely.
I had on a pair of strappy, but casual, tan high-heeled sandals and with these was wearing a shirtwaist dress in a drifty silk with a subtle feminine pattern that had a background of deep pink. It had a belt of the same material cinching it at the waist, buttons up the front (and I’d only undone a proper few at my collarless neckline) and long sleeves. But the skirt was scalloped up at the side seams and hit above my knee.
Sitting, it rode up significantly.
So with my legs to the side, aimed toward Mickey, and crossed that way, a goodly amount of thigh was on show.
I felt a tinge of heat hit my cheeks—and, frankly, elsewhere—and I fought it back as I stared at Mickey, perplexed at the same time I resisted the urge to hide my legs under the table.
Why was he looking at my legs?
“So, when can we go?”
This question drew my attention and I looked to Cillian.
“Go where, honey?”
“With you to Dove House,” he explained.
I blinked.
“That’d be cool,” Aisling said quietly. “And I’m sure they could use the help. We could go one day before school starts, while Dad’s at work.”
“I—”
Cillian spoke over me, doing this to declare, “I’m not cleanin’ up old people puke.”
Aisling looked to her brother. “You won’t have to. You can play checkers with them or something.”
“I can’t beat old people at checkers,” he returned. “That’d be mean and I’m a master checker player.”
“Then play something you’re bad at,” Aisling replied.
“Dude, I’m not bad at anything,” Cillian retorted with a cheeky, arrogant grin.
“Why do you wanna go?” Aisling asked.
“Because Amy is da bomb and I want some old lady to shout at me,” Cillian answered.
Aisling made a face that was not easy to behold.