“Where are your knives? Cutting board?” she asks matter-of-factly, turning to face me finally. I step close, reaching around her to open the utensil drawer, and as I do, my hand brushes against hers. She reacts, jerks backward a little, and I place a steadying palm on her forearm, feeling tensed muscle beneath my fingertips. Thing is, she’s feminine, but she’s strong, too.
“Just getting it for you,” I explain gently, and wonder what exactly haunts her past that’s left her this jumpy.
She stares down, nodding, and I see warmth creep into her rose-colored complexion. She’s wearing a clingy white T-shirt with khaki pants again—almost exactly what she had on yesterday. Different shoes this time. Another pair of sparkly, open-toed sandals, a mild racy touch in an otherwise conservative wardrobe.
“How’s Foot tonight?” I ask, and this time she does look at me. Like she’s surprised that I’m picking back up our little flirtation. I lean closer, and staring at her pink painted toenails, whisper, “Out on the town again, huh? Foot really gets around, doesn’t she?”
She smiles, a broad, genuine smile, and for once doesn’t even bother hiding the quirky way it turns up sideways. “She’s advised me to be a good chaperone, but yes, she’s out.”
“Foot is out?”
“Yes, on the town.” She stares at her feet, gesturing. “You know, like you said.”
“Hmm, I thought maybe Foot was gay or something. If Foot’s out.”
She rolls her eyes dismissively. “No way. She’s totally straight.”
I’m not. I almost say it, but I bite back the words, and drain the rest of the Heineken from the bottle instead.
Andrea and Marti come clattering into the house, talking and laughing, and seeing my little girl smiling so easily is like catching air. Like dropping into a mammoth wave, the kind that leaves you unable to breathe at first.
“Hey, sweetheart,” I call out, and she looks around, her face clouding with confusion as she spots the meal brewing on the stove. Rebecca’s left me stirring the ground beef in a saucepan while she’s gone to the bathroom.
“Are you cooking?” Andrea’s auburn eyebrows furrow into a dramatic line. It’s an expression I’ve seen on Alex’s face countless times—funny how she mirrors him without even trying. It’s definitely in the genetics.
“You have a good time with Aunt Marti?” I ask brightly.
Marti, closing the door to the garage behind them, looks surprised. “You’re cooking, Warner?” she laughs. “Oh, my God. Not you, not really?”
“Uh, actually…” I stall a moment, glancing toward the hallway bathroom. “Well…a friend came to make a good meal for us.”
“A friend?” Marti’s green eyes widen as undisguised hope flits across her face.
“Who?” Andrea folds her small arms across her chest.
“Your new friend,” I say, a tad defensively, feeling ganged up on by the women in my life. “Rebecca O’Neill.”
For a long moment, Andie stays silent, and I fear this has been a lethal mistake, but then a small smile forms on her face. “Oh.” She nods approvingly. “Cool.”
Andrea walks toward her bedroom, towing her small suitcase with her, and Marti steps close to me. “I wasn’t aware that Andrea had made a new friend,” she whispers. “Especially not one who cooks in such style.”
At that precise moment, Rebecca enters the kitchen, her gaze moving between us. We snap apart and I give Rebecca a guilty smile. Guilty because I know that Marti knows me, which means she’s going to sniff out my secret attraction like the devoted bloodhound she can be.
Marti, God love her, doesn’t miss a beat, but extends her hand warmly. “Hi, Rebecca, I’m Marti.”
“Nice to meet you.” Rebecca bobs her head in that way I’ve noticed she does when things feel a little unclear. “I’m just… making dinner.”
“Rebecca works with me at the studio,” I interject lamely. “She and Andrea have spent some time together.”
“That’s great,” Marti chirps, then glances at her watch. “Oh, wow, I didn’t realize it was this late. Dave’ll kill me if I don’t turn right around and get home. I’m supposed to do the kids’ baths tonight.”
“Well, it was great meeting you,” Rebecca says, offering a hint of a smile, as she turns to stir the ground beef on the stove.
Marti opens the door, then adds, “Hope I’ll see you again, Rebecca,” and I could kill her for embarrassing me like that.
In the driveway, Marti clutches my arm. “Warner, why on earth didn’t you mention that you’d made friends with Rebecca O’Neill?”
“Why would I?”
“Duh,” she says, thumping her forehead with the heel of her palm. “Because she’s famous? And she’s just, what, over at your house now?”
“She’s not famous.” I fold my arms over my chest, explaining, “She works at the studio as some film exec or whatever.”
“She may be, but she is famous, Michael,” she explains with forced patience. “God, where have you been? Like under a rock?”
“I’ve had a lot going on this past year,” I growl at her.