Page 16 of I Wish You Were Mine

“Shit!” I hiss.

“You okay?” Maren asks.

I shove my hand into a mitt. “Fine. Dinner will be ready in ten.”

I make some excuse about work and emails and hole up inmy bedroom off the kitchen with my laptop while I wait for the shrimp to be done. Clearly I can’t be in the same room as Maren. Not while she’s cheerleading. Or being sweet with my daughter. Or helpful or playful orhotashell.

Control is my MO. Losing it—letting my guard down—is how I got obliterated four years ago.

I sure as hell ain’t gonna let that happen again. Not when I saw how badly Katie got destroyed too. She deserves to have someone as excellent and dependable as Maren in her life. I wouldn’t jeopardize that for all the sweet tea in the South.

I gotta keep my head screwed on straight. No matter what my body’s reaction to Maren is, I have to keep our relationship strictly professional. No touching, no teasing. Certainly no splits.

I can do it.

I will do it.

But when I come back upstairs, I draw up short when I see Maren and Katie busy setting the table. Katie is talking a mile a minute and Maren is listening patiently, nodding as she shows Katie how to set down the silverware on napkins. There’s music playing from the speaker I keep tucked in a corner on the counter. Taylor Swift, I think?

The kitchen feels calm. Cozy. Katie is clearly happy. The delicious smells of roasted garlic and just-cooked rice fill the kitchen. Taylor is singing about something delicate. I have a nice buzz from downing that whiskey sour on an empty stomach.

A swelling sensation fills my chest. I don’t allow myself to name it.

“Are you not a Swiftie?” Maren asks, looking up at me with a confused expression on her face.

“She’s fine. It’s fine. Why?”

Katie looks at me and frowns. “You look scary, Daddy. Are you not happy?”

“I’m happy when you’re happy, Squish.” I don’t mean forthe words to come out as a growl, but they do. I clear my throat. “I like it. The music and the—uh, way y’all set the table. Thank you.”

“Thank you for making dinner.” Maren settles Katie into a chair at the table. “What a treat.”

A treat? Really? Me making her a meal? Where the fuck are this girl’s standards?

I’m inexplicably angry as I put on an oven mitt and yank the tray of shrimp and broccoli out of the oven. I stir more butter into the pot of rice on the stove, then put a decent-sized scoop on Katie’s purple plastic plate.

I squeeze half a lemon over the tray and dust it with some parmesan cheese. Put some shrimp and broccoli on her plate, careful to remove the tails from the shrimp.

Then I make Maren and me a plate. I probably should ask what she wants, but engaging in conversation with her feels dangerous right now.

Thankfully, Katie doesn’t stop talking when the three of us sit down to eat. I notice Maren is still working on her cocktail, slowly sipping it as she and I eat and nod while Katie talks.

“Wow,” Maren says after her first bite of shrimp, licking her lips. “Tuck, that is delicious.”

Katie gets on her knees on the chair and grins at Maren. “You like shrimp too?”

“On your bottom,” I say. “You’re going to get hurt if you sit like that.”

“I don’t like shrimp. I love them,” Maren replies. “Correction: I love them when your daddy makes them.”

“I like the rice best,” my daughter replies.

Maren reaches for Katie and sets her on her bottom. “Then you’re missing out. Remember how I was able to fly? I had to eat lots of shrimp and lots of broccoli to be strong enough to do that.”

Katie looks dubiously at her plate. “One piece of broccoli. Is that a deal?”

“That’s a deal,” Maren says.

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