They never even ask. They just operate on the assumption that I’ll be part of their activities for the day.
I make one comment about being fine if they want to have the day to themselves, but they both strenuously object to the possibility. So I don’t push it. I don’t even want to.
The truth is spending the day with them sounds better than anything I’d do on my own.
So we go to brunch at a nearby restaurant and then visit a contemporary art museum. We get back to the apartment in the late afternoon to rest before having dinner at home and then watching a movie together.
Overall, it’s a great day, and all three of us are in a good mood when the movie ends at about ten in the evening.
Candice heads to her bedroom, and Hugh goes to his room too—I assume he wants to catch back up on his email after being away from it all day. I hear myself humming as I start working on the dishes we left in the sink after dinner.
I know doing dishes is not my job, but I’d do it in my own home, so there’s no reason not to do it here. Plus I still feel like I’m getting off easy for all the money I’m making on this job.
“You don’t have to do the dishes.” When the familiar voice sounds from behind me, I do a little jump.
“I know. I really don’t mind.” I smile over my shoulder at Hugh. “And some of them are my dishes too.”
He comes over to pick up one of the dishes I’ve washed and starts drying it. “Still. It’s not one of your job duties.”
“I know that. And I appreciate your trying to be careful about taking advantage. But I’m living here for the month like you and Candice, so it makes sense to help out with some basic duties of life. I can hardly expect to be waited on, and I’d never leave a mess for other people to clean up after me.” My tone is just slightly prim.
His mouth twitches in that adorable way he has. “That I can believe. I doubt you’ve ever left any sort of mess in your life.”
“What do you mean by that?” I peer at him suspiciously since he might be laughing at me in a teasing way.
“I mean exactly what I said. You’re not the kind of person who leaves messes.”
“That strikes me as basic consideration for other people.”
“True. But you’re allowed to be messy occasionally, you know.”
I narrow my eyes, still trying to understand what I’m seeing on his face. “I guess.”
“You guess?”
“Yes.”
“Does that mean you’re pretending to agree but actually don’t?”
“I know I’m theoretically allowed to be messy sometimes, but just because someone is allowed to do something doesn’t mean they have to do it.”
“I guess.” His tone is exactly like mine was when I said the words a few moments ago.
Completely distracted from the plate I’m supposed to be washing, I give him a little glare. “Now you’re making fun of me?”
“Not making fun. Teasing.” His eyes look very green. And warm. So warm they’re melting me. “There’s a difference.”
“And what’s the difference?”
“You already know the difference. You make fun of people you don’t like, and you tease people you do.” His mouth is still quirked up. He’s busily drying a plate that is already dry.
I flush hot, washed with pleasure and excitement. “Is that right?”
“Yes. That’s right.” He clears his throat. “I get it though.”
“What do you get?”
“Why you’re so reluctant to be messy. To leave any sort of mess. You were always cleaning up your ex’s messes, and I’m damn sure he never helped you with yours.”
It’s true. Entirely true. And it shocks me with its intimacy. Its insightfulness.
“Why…?” I have to swallow over a tightness in my throat. “Why do you think that?”
“Because of what you’ve told me. And what I can see for myself. It’s got to be tough to not be able to trust your own husband enough to let down your guard.”
My hands are almost shaking now. I hide them by handing him another plate to dry and collecting the silverware from the bottom of the sink. “I was too clueless at first to understand that was the situation. And after I realized it, I really believed I was stuck. That all relationships were like that. That maybe men just sucked.” I make my tone on the last words very light so he doesn’t think I genuinely believe it.
“A lot of them do. A lot of people do. I’m glad you got yourself out of the trap.”
I smile up at him. “Me too.”
We stare at each other for too long before I remember that he’s my client and the way I’m feeling right now is very wrong.
So incredibly wrong.
Jerking my head back toward the sink, I finish washing the last of the dishes, passing them one by one over to Hugh so he can dry them. He doesn’t say anything either.
When we’re done, I reach for the one dirty pot left on the oven which I forgot about earlier. Just as I’m about to get my hands around the handle, Hugh grabs for it too.
“I’ll get that,” he says.
“I’ve already got it.”
“I’ve got it too.” He tries to pull the pot away from me.
I make a grab to keep him from doing so. “I’m the one washing. You can dry it.”
“I can wash and dry this one.”
“But I—”
“You cooked most of the meal. The least I can do is clean the pot.” His jaw is set, and he’s not letting go.
He’s not going to back down on this.
Despite my ridiculous desire to argue, I relent and step away from the pot. “Fine. You can wash. I’ll dry. I’ve never met anyone so stubborn.”
He rolls his eyes, but his mouth is twitching again. “And I’ve never met someone so unwilling to let me help.”
I snort at his dry tone, trying and failing to hide my amusement. I wait until he’s done with the pot, and then I snatch it away so I can dry it before he beats me to it.
He laughs out loud as I give him a victorious look. When I’ve put the pot back in place, I say, “There.”
“There?”
“Yes. There. All done. And don’t think you won because you didn’t.”
He steps closer, backing me up against the counter. “I didn’t realize it was a competition.”
“It’s not.” My head is tilted back so I can see his face. My whole body shudders with heat and excitement. “But you still didn’t win.”
“Okay.” He leans forward, his eyes going hot. “I didn’t win.” Even his voice feels thicker than it should be.
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Yes. Good.”
We’re talking nonsense at this point, but neither one of us notices or minds. He’s about to kiss me. It’s vibrating in the air between us, and every molecule in my body wants it. Needs it. Is dying to have it.
His mouth drifts down until there are less than two inches between us. Then he gives a dramatic twitch of his body and takes a quick, awkward step back. He opens his mouth, but no words come out.
I gulp. “It’s getting late.”