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Except then I look at him, and all the buzzing in my beaver stops. Alex is eating like a pig. His mouth is two inches from his plate, and he keeps jamming more food in before he even has a chance to swallow. He’s also eating with his left hand instead of his right, so bits of egg have fallen off his plate and onto the table.
“This is so much better than hospital crap. Thanks, Mom,” he says around a mouthful of omelet.
“Violet helped.” Daisy sits primly at the table with her napkin in her lap. She has amazing manners. My legs are crossed like I’m sitting on a yoga mat. I rearrange them so I’m sitting nicely, even though they’re visible to no one.
Alex stops with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Really?”
I focus on my plate. I shouldn’t be hurt by his surprise. Usually I take something out of the freezer and follow the directions Alex’s personal chef has left us. He shows up every Monday to make a week’s worth of meals when Alex isn’t on the road.
Daisy pats my hand. “She did a great job. She even made her own omelet.”
Alex looks at my mangled, misshapen omelet, and then back at what’s left of his own perfect one, which his mother made. “That’s awesome.”
“Thanks,” I say. I need to stop being so sensitive. Daisy’s just here to help, not show Alex I’m poor wife material.
When the guys are on the road, Charlene and I do takeout half the time. The other half we eat ramen noodles like we did in college, or Kraft mac ‘n’ cheese, and occasionally, when Charlene is feeling particularly ambitious, she makes shepherd’s pie—but with those fake potatoes, because mashing real ones takes work. Hopefully Daisy can teach me how to make something even better than that.
Eating takes all of Alex’s energy. So as soon as dinner is over, he goes back upstairs. I plan to help Daisy with dishes. She insists on washing most of them even though we have a dishwasher, which I usually load to capacity and often forget to run. The housekeeper takes care of it when I don’t. Daisy seems more than happy to wash them by hand.
I reach for a dish towel to dry, but she puts her hand on my arm.
“I can take care of this. I’ll be fine for the rest of the evening. Why don’t you go up and see if Alex needs you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course, sweetheart.”
“Thanks, Daisy.” I kiss her on the cheek, because it feels right.
Her smile pops a dimple. She pats my cheek and turns back to the dishes, humming as she pulls on a pair of yellow gloves and dunks her hands in the soapy water.
Alex is struggling with his hoodie when I get upstairs, swearing under his breath. I close the door with a quiet click and turn the lock.
“Need some help?”
“I should be able to undress my damn self.” He’s managed to get one arm out, but he can’t get it over his head.
I walk to the bed and pat the mattress. “Come sit, baby.”
He huffs, but does as I ask. I tap his knees, and he parts them so I can get in between. I unsnap his sling and ease the collar over his head, careful of the stitches and bruises on his face. The bruising on his injured arm is mottled and so purple it’s almost black in some areas.
I skim the side of his neck. “Do you want that bath now?”
Alex looks up, his gaze stopping briefly at my chest before meeting my eyes. “That’d be nice.”
“Do you want me to join you?”
“Please.”
“Okay, let me warm the water.”
“’Kay. I won’t fall asleep this time.”
I lean down and kiss him softly. “I’ll be right back.”
I run to the bathroom and check the water temperature. It’s barely tepid. I drain the tub and start over, dumping in new Epsom salts and lavender, since it’s calming.
I strip out of my clothes, toss them in the hamper, freshen up my beaver real quick, and peek around the jamb.
Alex is lying down again. But his entire body isn’t on the bed, which is a good sign. I hope. His feet are still planted on the floor, the upper half of his body prone on the mattress. When I approach, his eyes open, and he slowly turns his head.
He groans. It sounds like a word, but I can’t be sure.
“Do you need some Tylenol? Or an anti-inflammatory?”
“No. Not the kind of anti-inflammatory you get in a pill, anyway.”
I round the bed and realize my anxiety is unnecessary. Alex’s sweats are tented at the waist. I smile, glad my boobs have their desired effect. “Lift your bum,” I order.
Alex cocks a brow, but does what I ask. I hook my fingers on either side and pull the waistband down. Super MC pops out. He’s massive. And his purple head peeks out of the turtleneck. “Looks like someone needs some attention.”
