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FORD
I’m standing in my kitchen, searing steaks in a cast iron skillet, the picture of domesticity. Amber is pacing around the kitchen, making sure everything is perfect. She said she wants to make a good impression for my mother’s first glimpse of her as a housewife. But she’s probably more nervous about convincing my mom that she’s really in love with me. I know she’s exhausted, too, since we’ve spent the last twenty-four hours moving her stuff into my room and setting up a real crib for Nella in the guest room across the hall.
“Please stop pacing. You’re making me nervous,” I tell her, aching to slip my hand in my jeans pocket and grasp the coin that rests there. I resist, knowing it’s nothing more than a nervous habit after all these years.
Amber sighs dramatically. “Sorry.” She moves around the large island to stand beside me, inhaling a deep breath with her eyes closed. Nella is taking a nap upstairs and the video monitor rests on the infinity island. We haven’t had many moments with just the two of us, and I relish being alone with her.
“This smells amazing, Ford. I didn’t realize you were such a chef,” she says before reaching for the fresh sprig of rosemary sitting on the countertop in front of her and sweeping the herbs across the buttery steak.
I watch in satisfaction as the ring on her hand glitters in the overhead kitchen lights. Knowing that I bought the ring and put it there does something to me. Even though there’s a niggling feeling when I remember the ring she really wanted but refused to let me buy her.
“There, now it’s perfect,” she exclaims, leaving the rosemary on top of the steak and removing her hand.
Then she surprises me and takes a step closer, placing one of her hands on my shoulder and then resting her head against my arm.
“Is this okay?” she asks, her voice sounding nervous, hesitant even. “I thought I should get used to touching you more, but I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” Her voice is barely above a whisper, and I hate that she’s nervous to touch me…to be near to me.
Instead of answering her with words, I show her just how comfortable I am with her touches and reach a hand up to rest it on top of hers. She sighs in relief and allows more of her body weight to sink into me.
“This is kind of nice. You’re always warm.”
I chuckle. “Perks of the muscle I suppose. Extra body heat.”
Amber sniffs my shirt. “I can’t believe you still use the same body wash you used in high school.”
“If it’s not broke, don’t fix it?”
She laughs, and I feel the vibration of it through my shirt and my skin, like it shoots straight to my heart, giving me a boost of serotonin.
“It smells good on you,” she says, gently pushing herself away from me, her hand trailing across my back with the movement, making me suck in a sharp breath.
My skin breaks out in goosebumps with the lingering heat of her touch. I stand there with my back toward her, trying to wipe the stunned expression off my face. Did Amber Park just lean on me and tell me I smell good? Blinking rapidly, I attempt to clear the brain fog caused by her nearness and her comment. I remind myself that Amber gives compliments freely. She’s a woman. Women compliment a lot. I have two sisters, after all, and I’ve heard them hyping their friends up for years. Saying things like, girl, slay, because their friend bought a new shirt or something. So, Amber liking the way I smell is just another thing that’s completely not a big deal, and I shouldn’t read anything into it.
When I finally fix my face and turn around, Amber is walking to the large window in the living room, where she has a view of my circular driveway. Her hips sway in a hypnotic way, but she’s all relaxed now, obviously not affected in the same way I am, by the world-altering knowledge that I smell good. Her cool demeanor changes as soon as she reaches the window.
Amber gasps. “They’re here! Ohmygosh, ohmygosh, ohmygosh.” The woman starts spinning in circles like she doesn’t know how to function any longer.
Too bad it’s my mother who makes her lose her mind and not me.
I shake my head, turning off the stove top and meeting her in front of the window. Placing my hands on her shoulders to stop her from spinning, I say, “Everything is going to be fine. We can be affectionate with each other, like we just were in the kitchen, and my mom and sister won’t think anything weird is going on.”
She closes her eyes and blows out a deep breath. “Okay.”
I spin her slowly, rotating so my hands are still on her shoulders but I’m behind her, then push her toward the front door to greet our guests. Our guests…I like the sound of that.
She straightens her legs, trying to stop the procession, then turns her head towards the baby monitor. “Oh, I think that was Nella! I’d better go get her.”
I glance at the screen. “Nice try. She’s sound asleep.”
Amber groans, finally relenting and allowing me to lead her to the front door. I release her shoulders and open it just as my mother and sister are about to knock.
“Hey, Mom.” I step onto the front stoop and pull her in for a quick hug, then do the same with Farrah. When I pull away from my sister I notice her unkempt appearance, which is unusual for her. Her dark hair is usually down and sleek, but now it’s in a mess of a bun on top of her head. It’s secured with a scrunchie. I never realized she was a scrunchie person. Farrah is wearing an Eagles hoodie I gave her for Christmas years ago, with black leggings and fuzzy slippers.
“Hey, what’s with the slippers?” I ask.
Farrah quirks a dark eyebrow, the same eyebrows I see in the mirror every day. “We were just in the car all day. I wanted to be comfy.”
It’s a perfectly reasonable explanation, but the way she avoids eye contact gives her away. I’m number one at avoiding both eye contact and subjects I don’t want to talk about, and I can sense it in others from a mile away. But I let her walk past me and inside the house. I can talk to her about this later.
