I mean—hell, poor Kelvin, but also . . . I want to see what that feels like.
And she also told me all about a batch of cookies she made Kelvin once. I’m not sure where that came from, but I listened intently.
But my listening paid off, because I found out that I’ve been duped by my wife.
Professional mourner? Not so much. Keiko went off about how she’s pregnant and not once did Cora bring her free donuts from Frankie Donuts, and as an employee of a confectionary establishment—her words—Keiko was “flabbergasted” Cora hadn’t sent anything to help with Keiko’s pregnancy cravings. Of course, Cora had sent plenty of donuts to the Rebels and the Bobbies, maintaining relations with the “baseball stars,” but not her dear friend.
I would like to say I was surprised by the information about Cora’s job, but I’m not. I’d started to notice a trend with our conversations. She’s opening up, but she’s not opening up with the truth. How did I know? Well, the whole “pierced clit knickknack” thing was a dead giveaway. But she also told me she has her pilot’s license, drove a car into a fast-food drive-thru sign once because a bee startled her, and she paid for college by stripping once a week. Yeah, none of that was true, and I knew from the get-go. But lying about her job, that’s another level.
And then I found out she was divorced, and what seems like recently.
That’s probably why she doesn’t want to be married, because she has recently become single.
I can understand that, and if it were under any other circumstances, I wouldn’t be pushing like I am, but it’s not me I’m thinking about—it’s my brother. It’s the children.
Thanks to Keiko, I’m more prepared for when I get home and for what to expect.
One: she’s trying to poison me with charred and over-salted dinners.
Two: she’s purposefully growing her body hair to disgust me. Too bad for her, I don’t care.
Three: she’s dishing up lies to throw me off.
Now I’m wondering how far she’ll go with the lies, what’s the end game—probably to get me to dislike her, well, two can play at that game—and what the hell is she going to do next?
But the worst of it all . . . I can still hear her moans in my head. I’ve heard them all fucking day, on repeat. And then tasting her fingers after she made herself come . . . bloody hell, I wanted more. So much more.
When I went to the bathroom after she cupped me, I came fast and hard. Having her hand explore me, even for seconds, really turned me on. I can’t decide if it’s because I haven’t been with someone for a while, or if it was because of her innocent perusal. But it was a nibble of the woman I want, and I woke up this morning wanting so much more.
But I won’t push her again. I gave her a taste, and if she wants more, she can get it. She knows the rules now.
I climb the stairs of our building—Frankie Donuts in hand, because that’s the game I’m playing—and walk into our apartment, a smile on my face.
That smile brightens even more when I walk in on Cora dancing in the kitchen, wearing nothing but an oversized shirt and tube socks, rocking the Tom Cruise Risky Business look, and swinging around a turner. Pancakes are on the griddle and they actually smell good.
I walk up behind her and place my hand on her lower back, startling her so badly that she chucks the turner in the air, spins around, and smacks me directly across the face.
I fly back, drop the donuts to the floor, and bump backwards into the fridge as my hand goes to my cheek.
“Oh my God,” she screams, holding her chest. “I thought you were a murderer.”
I run my hand over my stinging cheek. “Nope, just your husband.” Jesus Christ, that hurt. I bend over and pick up the box of donuts and hold them out to her. “I brought you donuts.”
Her eyes land on the box and her brows draw back. Uneasiness is written all over her face. Yup, I know you bloody well work there.
“Oh, thank you.” She takes the box and sets it to the side. “Are you okay?” She reaches out and pulls my hand away from my face. “Yikes, I left a mark. We should probably ice that.”
“I’ve had worse,” I say, but don’t fight her as she pulls me toward the counter and makes me sit on the island. I enjoy watching her grab ice from the freezer and putting it in a towel. She gently places it on my face.
She might be lying to me and she might be trying to scare me away with her cooking, but she does care about me. It’s evident in the way she’s taking care of me right now. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it.