Page 150 of Lost Trust

A mental picture of Marina wearing the nightgown flashes before me. I can almost feel the silk slide against my skin.

The front door opens, and I walk back into the living room.

Marina walks in, looking spent.

Her shoulders sag beneath the weight of the day, and there’s exhaustion written all over her face.

She drops her bag by the door. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

Her eyes find mine. “Where’s Ryder?”

“In bed. Ginger’s reading him a bedtime story.”

She glances toward the kitchen.

“Dinner’s in the oven. Sit.”

She blinks.

“Sit down, baby.”

Her expression softens. “I wanna change out of these clothes first.”

“Go ahead.”

She disappears down the hallway, and I watch her go before turning back toward the kitchen.

I pull the plate from the oven and pop it in the microwave for twenty seconds, set it on the island, and pour a glass of tea from a pitcher in the fridge.

Marina walks back into the kitchen with a clean face and her hair pulled into a ponytail. She’s traded her work clothes for a pair of lounge shorts and a T-shirt.

She drops into the chair in front of the plate.

Ginger comes in a few minutes later, shutting the bedroom door quietly behind her.

“He’s out,” she whispers.

“Thanks, Mom. I wish I had been here to tuck him in,” she says. She looks down at her plate, then up at Ginger. “And thank you for cooking. I was planning to, but honestly, I’m glad Ryder got to eat and go to bed. He has day care in the morning, and it’s past his bedtime.”

Ginger’s eyebrows rise. “I didn’t cook.”

Marina’s eyes slowly lift from her plate to me. “You did this?”

“Not just that.” Ginger points toward the hallway. “He got Ryder in the bath without a fuss, cleaned the kitchen, and folded the laundry too.”

Marina looks at me like she’s trying to figure out who the hell I am. “You did all that?”

“And he took Ryder fishing.”

I bend and plant my elbows on the kitchen island in front of the two of them. “Now, Ginger, you’re gonna make me blush. Don’t give me too much credit. Cooking and cleaning aren’t a big deal.”

They blink at me.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a man cook for me, and I know I’ve never had one do my laundry,” Ginger says.

I stand and grab the pitcher to refill Marina’s glass. “Sounds like you’ve been keeping the wrong sort of company. My dad did anything that needed doing in our house, and so did us boys. Not like Momma was our maid. A man doesn’t deserve a cookie for that.”