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He brings my hand to his mouth. His lips kiss my palm, then my wrist from where the bracelet dangles. “I’m sorry to have to leave you. There’s nothing more I want than to walk out of here holding your hand.”
“It’s fine, Mick.”
He doesn’t look like he believes me, but with the credits rolling, he shoves back on his cap. Then he’s gone.
Sunday I’m up early. Wakingbefore Mick is rare, but I’m too wound up to sleep. Victor and Isabelle agreed to forfeit their turn to let me host brunch. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Now I’m a nervous wreck.
I shower and dress comfortably in an open flannel shirt over a tank top paired with boyfriend jeans. On the menu is a breakfast casserole. I got the recipe off Pinterest. Kid friendly; nothing too ambitious. But what if it doesn’t turn out? What if the children hate it? What if brunch is a big freaking flop? I’ve never hosted a brunch before. The most I’ve hosted is dinner for my friends. Two people, not twelve! What was I thinking? I’m no Martha Stewart, not even close.
Counting my breaths, I redirect my thoughts to the recipe rather than on the potential disasters. My to-do list also helps. Aside from keeping me organized, the structure gives me something concrete and practical to focus on. When Mick awakens, he allows me a wide berth, sensing I need it, and sets up the table and chairs that we rented for the occasion.
Upon seeing the crammed fit in the living room, I snap at him. “How is anyone supposed to eat when they can’t even move?”
“It’s not that bad.”
“Not bad?” I glare at him, infuriated by his nonchalance. “It’s terrible.”
“What would you like me to do?”
“Nothing!”
I storm into the kitchen and fling open the cupboard to get a punch bowl. I toss in mixed berries and quickly cut up apple cubes and orange slices, managing not to chop off a finger in my hurry. But when I go to open the bottle of cranberry cocktail, it slips out of my hands, spilling onto the kitchen floor, and splattering up on the cupboard doors and all over the front of my clothes.
“Shit!”
Mick rushes into the kitchen, taking in the scene, his concerned eyes scan over me. “You okay?”
“I just made a big mess. I am a mess.”
“Baby.” His eyes move over me in understanding. “You are stressing yourself out.”
“I know. I’m sorry for snapping at you before.”
“Don’t worry about it. Go change and I’ll clean this up.”
“You sure?”
“Yep.” He kisses the tip of my nose and ushers me out.
I throw my clothes into the washer and go find something else to wear. I’m standing inside the closet in my robe when Mick comes in.
“Kitchen’s cleaned up and we had another bottle of juice, so all good. Anything else to be done?”
“Not for now, thanks.” I take deep breaths, trying to calm myself down.
“I know a way to help you relax.”
“Don’t you dare.” I elbow his ribs when he comes up behind me. “Our family will be here any minute and I still have to find something to wear.”
“I’ll pick out something.”
“Uh…no.”
“You don’t think I have good taste?”
“I think your taste is excellent. But…Mick!” I protest when he moves around me and starts perusing the contents of my side of the closet. Embarrassed, I wince at the idea of him seeing the tags advertising my size. I’m sure the only double-digits his supermodels had worn were two zeroes.
As he gets to the back and hones in on my maybe-one-day section, he pauses and his brow furrows. I imagine it would be like stepping out of a black and white movie into technicolor. But he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he selects slim-fit jeans and a raspberry-colored knit pullover with a drawstring hem that ties at the waist and slips off one shoulder.
