Done with my work for the day, I shut my computer, hop off my bed, and check myself in the mirror. The girls and I went back and forth about whether or not I should play the whole “sleeps naked in bed” angle, flaunting my body and driving him nuts. Although it would be satisfying to watch him get sexually aggravated with no release in sight, we all agreed that it might keep him around, hoping that one of us caves, and the last thing we need in this messed-up situation is the complication of sex. And let me tell you how frustrated I am by that. I’ve been waiting to have all the penises when my divorce came through. And now, the man I wanted to have my first pole dance on is vag-blocking me. This is just so, so unfair.
So, I’m going in the opposite direction. Frumpy, doesn’t-care wife. I scoured my wardrobe for some real doozies and found cotton shorts that awkwardly hit me mid-thigh, Paisley-patterned long sleeves, and a simple Chicago Rebels T-shirt to top off the look. I don’t pay much attention to baseball, but I did see Maddox Paige on a billboard once and thought if I were ever a baseball fan, it would be for him and him alone. The next day, I bought a Chicago Rebels shirt.
When Stella and Romeo saw me wearing the shirt, they of course had to embarrass me and invite him and a couple of other guys over one night. They introduced me, and I nearly turned into a puddle from how amazingly handsome he is, but then left it at that. I’ll send the Rebels donuts every now and again, just as a reminder that they have a friend at Frankie Donuts.
But back to my outfit—I think the clash of colors, patterns, and garment lengths are less than appealing and will hopefully deter him.
When I enter the kitchen, I take a deep breath and glance around the foreign space. I’m really not much of a cook at all. I’ve made a few things here and there, and I tend to make food to survive, but putting together a meal like today? Yeah, completely out of my wheelhouse.
But nothing like trying for my husband, right?
First thing’s first, cook the chicken. I might be a bad cook, but I do know one thing: I’m aware that you can get food poisoning from uncooked chicken, which is why I’ve chosen to completely char it.
I preheat the oven—because the basic recipe I looked up said to do that—and am grabbing a sheet pan and the chicken when the door opens. I’m startled at first, because I’m not used to people just walking into my apartment. Every visitor I get at least knocks.
When the door shuts and Pike comes into view, I restrain myself from sighing because, God, if I wasn’t so mad at him, I would want to help him take off his clothes right now.
He’s so sexy it actually hurts.
Hair slightly askew, he has his motorcycle helmet tucked under his jacket-covered arm, a black JanSport backpack strapped around his shoulders, and is wearing dark-washed jeans and a black shirt.
If I was a student, history would be my favorite class.
I watch him look around the apartment and when his eyes land on me in the kitchen, it seems like he sighs in relief.
Probably thought I ran away.
I thought about it.
But reinventing myself in a new town held no appeal.
A soft smile greets me as he sets down his helmet in the entryway. “Hey, how was your day?” he asks.
The tone of his voice is easygoing.
But not like yesterday. Yesterday—even though he was relaxed—there was tension to his voice. A passive manipulation that I didn’t care for at all.
But today, right now, it’s as if he’s attempting to be human.
Too bad for him that I’ve switched it into high-gear antichrist-wife mode . . . well, I’m easing into it.
“It was fine,” I answer in a clipped tone. I almost ask him how his was, because that’s a natural thing I would do, but I hold my tongue. I honestly don’t want to know how his day went. I don’t want to know much about him at all.
He briefly scans my outfit, an odd look crosses his face, but the smart man doesn’t comment on my attire.
Damn it.
“Fine, huh?” he says as he takes off his shoes. “Seems as though everything is fine to you.”
I don’t answer him. Instead, I let the chicken breasts slip from their packaging and plop them into my brand-new baking pan. After taking care of the packaging and washing my hands under scalding water, I take a wooden spoon—because that’s a kitchen tool and will do the trick—and I spread out the chicken. There, would you look at that? I’m practically a professional.
“Making dinner?” he asks, stating the obvious.
As he draws closer, I feel the hairs on the back of my neck start to rise as if I were a rabid dog unhappy with his approach.