“No, you’re not.”
“You’re not either. She will ask you.”
“Hmm,” he murmurs, non-committally.
“I mean it.”
“Okay. Let’s go inside.” He picks up our bags and leads me in the house, disarming the alarm.
“I’m surprised she didn’t try to break in and wait for me in the house,” I comment. That’s her usual M.O.
“She must have seen the alarm. See? I told you you needed an alarm.” He offers me a smug smile and my chest loosens. I don’t want to think about Sylvia anymore. She can’t hurt me.
I snicker as he turns his back to me to pick our bags up and take them upstairs. “Yes, you were right.”
“What did you say?” he asks sarcastically.
“You’re handsome,” I reply with a grin.
“No, that’s not what you said,”
“I like your shirt?”
“Nope.” He sets the bags down and slowly saunters to me, his eyes narrowed and a smile tickling his lips. “Tell me.”
“Um… I think we should order dinner in?”
He laughs now, full-out, and the knot in my stomach from seeing Sylvia on my doorstep is gone.
“I think you said something about me being right.”
“Did not,” I scoff.
“Did too.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” I reply and shake my head. “You must be thinking of someone else.”
“No, you’re the only beautiful, smart-mouthed woman on my mind these days.”
“Gee, that’s so good to hear,” I reply sarcastically and he sweeps in and throws me over his shoulder, heading for the stairs.
“Hey! Our luggage!”
“We’ll get it later. I think I need to teach you a lesson.”
“What kind of lesson?” I look down at his firm, tight ass and give it a little smack, just because I can.
He smacks mine back, making me yelp.
“The fun kind.”
I smile and brace myself on his lean hips as he easily climbs the stairs.
God, I love him.
* * *
“So, you’re playing Arizona next Sunday?” I ask from my spot on the couch. Will taught me my lesson. I think I may need more lessons like that in the future. I’m a slow learner. Then we ordered in dinner, and now we’re on the couch, watching football.
Well, Will is watching football. I’m about to paint my toenails.
“Yes.”
“At home?” I ask casually.
“Yes,” he smiles at me. “And after the game, the whole family is going to my mom and dad’s for dinner. It’ll probably be the last weekend this year that we can still enjoy their backyard.”
“Okay.”
“I want you there.”
It isn’t a request, and makes me smile. I want to be there.
“Okay,” I say again. Will nods and goes back to watching his game, that being settled.
I shake my red nail polish and pull my right foot up onto the couch, my heel tucked against my ass, and buff my toenails, then open the polish. Before I can swipe the brush down my toenail, Will interrupts me.
“Can I do that?”
My head whips up to meet his eyes, surprised. “What?”
“I want to do that.”
“Why?”
He just shrugs and smiles as he slides across the couch, pulls my foot into his lap, causing me to turn so my back is against the armrest, and holds his hand out, waiting for me to hand over the polish.
“Are you sure?”
He just raises an eyebrow at me, that cocky smile still on his lips, and I hand the polish to him.
“It’s not as easy as it looks, you know.”
“I’m quite sure I can do it.”
“I thought you were watching football.”
“I’m listening.”
I shake my head and settle back against the soft cushion, arms folded over my belly and watch his dark blonde head bow over my foot, his big hand holding the polish wand over the toes, and methodically paints each toe.
Miraculously, he doesn’t end up painting my skin.
“You shouldn’t be doing your own toes,” he murmurs under his breath.
“Excuse me?”
“You shouldn’t be doing your own toes,” he repeats, raising his head to look me in the eye.
“Why ever not?”
“Because, you should pamper yourself and go get pedicures.”
“Oh please,” I wave him off. “Who has time for that?”
“You only work three days a week, babe.”
“Well, now that I’m not sending every last dime to Sylvia any more, I’ll splurge,” I comment with a smile but the look he sends me is feral.
“That’s why you do your own feet? Why you barely have basic cable? How much have you been sending her?”
“None of your business.” I try to pull my foot away, but he grabs my ankle and holds strong.
“It is my business.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Megan, don’t fight me on this. I’m in love with you, damn it, and you’re sending money you need to that piece of shit of a human being. Now tell me, how much do you send her?”
“Anything that’s left over.”
“What does that mean?”
“What I said. I pay the bills, buy groceries and keep a little for incidentals and send her the rest.”