CHAPTER 34
LUNA
My husband is wearing gray sweatpants and looking way too good in them. I try to blame the scent of the braising beef for the drool collecting in my mouth. But that would be a lie.
I should buy Charlie some ill-fitting overalls and add to our marriage rules that he’s required to wear the baggy denim whenever he’s in my presence.
At least I have a task that keeps my eyes busy.
“I want to help.” His voice comes in a low, coaxing rumble.
Why can’t he speak in a needy, high-pitched whine? That would be easier to dismiss.
Still, I don’t give in.
“You’re doing enough just by staying married to me. Don’t men dream of cracking open a beer, zoning out in front of a TV, and having dinner made for them?”
I keep my focus on the cutting board as I chop cilantro and talk to Charlie. Just because I have a degree in nutrition does not mean I’m suddenly a master chef. My dicing skills are slow-going. When I find a recipe to try, I normally have to double the prep time to get an accurate idea of how long to plan for.
“If that’s the kind of men you know, you need to up the caliber of people you spend time with.”
Done slicing the tiny, fragrant leaves, I set down my knife and meet Charlie’s stare. He stands on the opposite side of the kitchen island, leaning toward me with a pleading expression on his face. Pig wears an almost-identical pout, but her focus rests entirely on the stovetop, where all the delicious, meaty smells are wafting from.
I’m not giving in to either guilt trip.
“I’m serious, Charlie. I’ve got dinner. Just chill out and let me be your sugar mama.”
He grimaces. “Okay, that was funny the first time you said it, but can we erase that term from all future conversations? It’s weirding me out.”
“Yeah. I heard it too. No more sugar mama.” Carefully, I scoop the cilantro off my board and dump the green leaves in a bowl beside my dough. “Still, I’ve been living on my own for over a decade. I’ve never needed more hands in the kitchen. Just because I have a husband doesn’t mean I’m suddenly helpless.”
Charlie absently cracks his knuckles—a sign of agitation I’m beginning to recognize—before tucking his hands in the pockets of those teasingly tempting gray sweatpants.
“I didn’t say youneedhelp. I’m saying I want to help. I hate being useless.”
“I told you?—”
“Yeah. The marriage. Sure. But in a day-to-day situation, I need to do more.”
“You walk Pig.”
At the sound of the word, my pup’s ear twitches. But apparently, beef is a higher priority than going outside.
“This doesn’t have to be a tally-keeping thing. No points to keep track of. Fake or not, we’re husband and wife. Can’t we just be partners for this next year? Like …” Charlie strolls over to the table, and he’s already picking up the little piece of paper before I realize what he’s doing. “This is the recipe you’re making, right? If I swear I know you can slice cucumbers, can I please cover that task?”
My arms fling out before my body freezes in panic, my heart beating at a frantic rhythm. When Charlie turns and notices my pose, his brow dips with concern.
“Luna? What’s wrong?”
“Put down the recipe.” I hiss the command, animosity stinging through my voice.
Pig whines, and Charlie flinches as if I slapped him. He gently sets the paper back where he found it. When the handwritten recipe settles on the table’s surface, I can breathe again.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, staring at his feet. “I’ll go hang out in my room.”
As he shuffles away, I realize I’m the biggest ass.
Did I just kick a happy puppy? Because it sure feels like it.
