Page 74 of I Almost Do

In my mind, I'd built up graduating and moving home into not just a physical milestone in terms of location but a relationship milestone.

I'd move back after my degree, James would recognize my adulthood and independence, and boom! We'd be married in truth.

But it was never about my adulthood or my independence, no matter what he says. So instead of beginning a new phase of our married lives, it's just limbo.

I made decisions about my career and started working on a business plan. And I'm writing. Trying to build up a catalog for a series of lighthearted romance novels. I'm really excited about that.

But James and I? Nothing is happening there. We're in an incredibly painful holding pattern. And the only thing I can think to do is start pushing his buttons and see if I can get any reaction out of him that isn't a tight smile, a cool kiss on the cheek, and a "Whatever you want."

I'm done walking around half naked. Now I just want him to talk to me about his feelings. And if I thought enticing him into sex was hard, it was nothing on trying to get James Mellinger to say something—anything—real.

When I tell him I want to eat dinners in the kitchen most nights and cut back on our regular personal chef's hours, his eyebrows rise, and then he shrugs and says, "You can do whatever you want."

The next night, I make him sit at the kitchen island, then present him with his dinner.

He looks intrigued and pleased. "Is this beef stew?"

I shake out my napkin and pick up my spoon. "It is." I shove a cutting board holding a loaf of fresh Italian bread toward him. "Have some bread. It's good together."

"This isn't Carol's usual fare."

"That's because Carol didn't make it. I did."

He looks back down at the bowl, then at me. "You?"

I smirk because if anything calls for smirking, it's his dumbfounded expression. "I made the bread too. I told you I was learning to cook."

He takes a bite, and his eyes widen. "This is really good." He takes another bite. "Really, really good."

I shrug, but I'm pleased. "I know all kinds of crazy life skills now. Laundry, dishwashers, vacuum cleaners."

He frowns. "They aren't life skills necessary for you. You don't need to do those things."

"I'm aware. But cooking is fun for me. Especially since someone else does most of the cleanup. Besides, I like knowing I can take care of myself."

His expression is doubtful. It irritates me. But before I can address it, his phone dings. He pulls it out of his pocket, reads something with a frown, and spends the next twenty minutes taking distracted bites of his dinner while working on his phone.

When he finally puts it away, I say, "You work too much."

"Your father left big shoes to fill."

He says that all the time.

Time to push those buttons.I say, "Wearing someone else's shoes is a good way to give yourself blisters or fall flat on your face."

He pushes his bowl away. "What's your point?"

"My father trusted you and loved you. When you worked for him, did he micromanage you or trust you to do your own thing?"

I know the answer. My father always talked about finding the right person to do the job, then trusting them to do it. He was never afraid to defer to experts. It was a huge part of his success.

James just frowns.

"Do you honestly believe you're supposed to try to recreate my father or second-guess whether every choice you make is the same one he would have made? You're stressed out all the time about not letting my father down, but he isn't even here to let down. And I don't believe he'd have wanted that for you, even if he were."

He pushes away from the counter, rises, and brushes a kiss across my cheek before he heads for the door. "I'll be in my office."

"Hey, James," I say. When he pauses and looks at me, I say, "Still love you."

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