Better Hate than Never (The Wilmot Sisters, #2)(85)
“Christopher actually made the introduction for me with this nonprofit,” I tell everyone, even though my eyes can’t seem to leave him. “I have a handful of projects waiting for me in the New Year because he won’t stop blabbing about me to his social network.”
A grin tips his mouth, his eyes holding mine. “What good is a social network if you don’t use it? Besides, I didn’t make them hire you. I just sent them your website and told them you’d done the firm’s new headshots. Your work spoke for itself.”
“Do you think you’ll take on those projects after the New Year?” Dad asks, leaning in, elbows on the table. “Or do you think you’ll go abroad for your usual work again?”
Christopher’s suddenly very interested in his empty dinner plate, eyes down, expression tight and unreadable.
I remember what he told me that night he came to the apartment and made pasta, and everything started to change.
I worried about you. I hated that to do your work you took risks and put yourself in danger.
Beneath the table, I reach out until my hand finds his clenched into a fist.
“Much as I loved what I was doing,” I tell Dad, “it’s burned me out. I’m ready for a change. I’ll still travel, sometimes, I hope. But I plan to spend a lot more time at home.”
Bea smiles at me from across the table. “So long as you don’t leave before December 25, for the sake of all those who’d have to deal with Maureen Wilmot losing her ever-loving shit if you were gone for Christmas.”
“Language,” Mom says, before turning toward me, poorly hiding her hopes as she looks at me. “Christmas is just so soon, and you hadn’t left; I assumed you were staying.”
“I’m staying,” I tell her while, still hidden under the table, I stretch my palm across Christopher’s knuckles and feel his grip start to relax, until our fingers tangle. Christopher’s gaze snaps up and our eyes meet. “And I’m not planning on leaving anytime soon.”
* * *
—
“Mom!” I call from the mudroom, where the washer and dryer are set up.
“Yes, Kate!” she calls back.
“Something’s wrong with the washer.”
Popping her head in, Mom wrinkles her brow in confusion. “Oh, dear. You don’t say.”
Dad pops up behind her, frowning. “It is? I just used it this morning—”
“Bill,” Mom says sweetly, turning and smiling up at him. “Would you be a dear and make sure the front door shut properly when Jamie and Bea left? Puck will pull it open if it’s not securely shut, and I’m not in the mood for another midnight frolic in the cold, looking for that tyrannical furball.”
Dad blinks down at Mom. “Maureen, the door’s—”
Mom yanks Dad down by the collar and kisses him so suddenly, he grunts in surprise. But then whatever hesitation he felt dissolves as his hands wrap around her waist, drawing her close.
“Ew. You two.” I shudder, shooing them with my hands. “Go do that somewhere else.”
Mom pulls away from their kiss and flashes me a smile that’s so like Jules’s, it’s startling. “I’d say the same for you and the laundry. Try Christopher’s.”
“Christopher’s? Mom, I can’t just—”
“Excuse me, Kate,” Mom says, eyes back on Dad as he leans in for another kiss. “Your father and I will be back in just a minute.”
“A minute?” Dad says, huskily. “That’s all I get?”
Mom laughs as she walks him back from the doorway until they’re out of sight.
I sigh, turning back to the washer. Puck slinks into the mudroom and meows, twining around my legs. I start to pull out my sopping-wet clothes from the washer and load them into the zip-up hamper that I brought them in. “I know, Puck. It’s gross. Parents aren’t supposed to act horny like that.”
Meow, he says.
“Well, fair point,” I tell him, reaching inside the washer for the wet clothes plastered to its sides. “I can appreciate that their horniness precipitated my existence, but as far as I’m concerned, that was twenty-eight years ago, and that should have been the end of it.”
A throat clear makes me jump and slam my head against the washer. Swearing under my breath, I stand and feel my heart flutter ridiculously in my chest.
Christopher stands, leaning against the threshold, hands in his pockets, watching me.
“It’s not polite to eavesdrop,” I tell him sourly, rubbing the back of my head.
He pushes off the threshold and closes the distance between us, gently brushing my hand aside, feeling the back of my head, satisfied when he doesn’t find any serious damage.
“Washer’s busted, Maureen said.”
I sigh, glancing over my shoulder at the traitorous washing machine. “Apparently.”
Christopher’s quiet, inspecting my sopping clothes sitting piled in the hamper. He seems to be deliberating something, his brow furrowed. Then he steps past me and picks up my laundry bag, using the shoulder strap to hike it onto his back. “I’ll do it for you.”
I give him a look. “You are not doing my laundry. However, if you wanted to invite me to your house for the rest of the evening so I could do my own laundry, that would be a different matter.”