“Smells great.” It does too—lemons, capers, and garlic.
I drop my briefcase by the front door and go in to find her looking adorable, if frazzled, in gray sweatpants and a flower-print apron with her hair trapped in a high ponytail. Her face is flushed from the heat of the stove. She turns her cheek to me for an obligatory kiss, then waves me out of the kitchen.
“Go, go. Fifteen minutes. I need to get everything timed right.”
I change into flannel pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, then stretch out on the sofa to watch the news. Pot lids bang in the kitchen. Water runs. The oven door slams shut. Liv curses.
“Need any help?” I ask.
“No thanks. Just a few more minutes.”
Although I love that she’s been trying so hard to learn to cook, I still hate that she took that class. If she hadn’t, she’d never have met that goddamn chef, they’d never have kissed, and we wouldn’t have had the fight that nearly killed us.
But she did. And they did. And we did.
Fuck.
I scrub a hand down my face and try to focus on the TV.
“Ready!” Liv calls.
I go to the table, where she’s put out two plates of chicken, potatoes, and green beans. “Looks amazing.”
“I hope it’s good.” She waves me to sit before taking her place. “So tell me about your day.”
First I try the chicken, which is juicy and tasty with a bite of pepper. “This is delicious.”
“Really?” She gives me a smile so bright my heart clenches. “You like it? I added more lemon than the recipe called for, but I thought it’d add a nice kick. And I put in a few flakes of cayenne.”
“You’re becoming a great cook, Liv.”
Still smiling, she digs into her own meal and asks again about my day. I give her an overview and tell her about lunch with Kelsey—and what Kelsey said.
“She thinks we’re freakishly happy?” Liv repeats.
“That’s what she said.”
She pokes at the remains of her chicken and glances at me. “What do you think?”
I don’t know how to answer that, so I play dumb. “About what?”
“Are we freakishly happy?”
Irritation pulls at me. She knows the answer, so why is she putting me on the spot? How the fuck can a couple be freakishly happy if the wife kisses another man? How can they be happy at all?
A swarm of anger fills my chest. I smother it with effort.
“If we were, we’d live in a circus,” I say, fighting to keep my voice even. “And no one on the outside looking in knows the full truth.”
It’s not what she wanted to hear. I can see the disappointment in her eyes, the slight hunch of her shoulders.
What the hell was I supposed to say? “Yeah, sure, we’re freakishly happy.”
Then she’d be mad because I was lying.
Fix this, West. Make it okay for her.
I go around to her side of the table and grasp her shoulders, pulling her up and against me. She settles easily into my arms like she always has, her hands sliding around my waist, her breasts pressing against my chest. She gives a little sigh of contentment that makes me want to both hold her forever and tear her clothes off right there.
Now I suppress the urge to do the latter. I tighten my arms around her.
“No,” I murmur against her hair which now smells like chicken piccata. “We are not freakishly happy. We are not freakishly anything. We’re two people who love each other. We had a tough time. We worked it out because we want to be together. Because we can’t imagine being with anyone else. Because we don’t want to be.”
She slips her fingers inside the waistband of my pants to stroke my lower back. Blood starts to pool in my groin, my prick pushing against her belly. She looks up at me, then reaches one hand down to palm my crotch. Although uncertainty flickers in her eyes, her tone is light.
“You want to hold that thought until I clean the kitchen?” she asks.
“Yeah.” I pull in a breath. “Sure.”
I close my eyes for a second, conjuring images of medieval saints and monastic architecture to will my erection away. Once I can move again, I help Liv clear the table before she gestures me out of the kitchen.
I go into my office and work on a paper about the Romanesque architecture of the Speyer Cathedral. Focusing on work has always been an easy out, a way to stop thinking about things I don’t want to think about. Years of study have taught me how to close off everything except triple-aisled basilicas and octagonal domes.
Liv would call that ability a “dorky professor thing.” I call it a survival technique.
Tonight, it’s nearly ten when I finally look up from the computer. The sound of the TV buzzes from the living room. I’d half-expected Liv to come find me, but she rarely comes into my office when I’m working.