Page 81 of The Art of Being Merry
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clem
I thoughtI could handle him in my space for dinner.
Clearly, I was completely mistaken.
He’s been here for ten minutes, and I’ve already put my foot in my mouth twice.
But when he goes and says something like that?
Gah.
This was a mistake. I’ll have to dig deep for inner strength to survive tonight.
“You can’t say things like that in the kitchen,” I say through gritted teeth. “Not with the boys around.”
Dax sighs. I glance up from my task of buttering the bread, and regret washes over his features. “I know. I promised myself I’d be on my best behavior. Hell of a lot of good it did.”
I can’t help but laugh at how he’s trying yet failing. I’m in the same boat, so I know where he’s coming from.
“We’re a pair, huh?”
“I’ll apologize for my behavior, but I can’t guarantee it won’t happen again.” So much sincerity permeates his tone. It’s not for lack of trying to be good. It’s the relationship we share. It’s hard to be around each other and keep our hands to ourselves and our clothes securely on our bodies.
Or maybe that’s just me.
“Long as the boys don’t think anything’s up. I’m not ready to explain.”
“Hearing you loud and clear, Clementine.”
Does he call me by my full name on purpose, or is it innocent? I truly can’t tell.
“Thanks.”
“Anytime. Anything I can do to help?”
“Nope, I’ve got it handled.” Then I remember the beer he brought. “Oh, I’ll take a beer, please. Just put it?—”
“In a cup. Got it.”
It shouldn’t be such a huge deal, except it is. In the couple of times I’ve had a beer in his presence, he took notes. Nearly ten years with Keith and he seemed surprised every time I wouldn’t drink from the can or bottle. Until the end. Every. Single. Time.
It’s so unfair to compare Dax to Keith, like likening paint to clay. Different mediums requiring unique skills and talents. But I freaking can’t help it. Not when Dax is here, showing up, doing kind things for me and my boys, doling out orgasms like it’s his job, and offering a kind of friendship I longed for with my husband.
If so many factors were different, I’d let myself imagine a life with Dax. Just for a few minutes. But alas, in this reality, I don’t have that privilege.
He sets the glass next to my workspace, but far enough away I won’t knock it over. “Have you tried this one yet?”
“Nope, but I’ve learned to trust your tastes.”
With a chuckle, Dax digs his phone out of his pocket. “Can you say that again? I’ll need to record it to play back later.” It’s a nod to our conversation last night, and I find myself amused again. It doesn’t take much with Dax.
“Fat chance. How was your day?” He’s always so good about asking about mine, but I sometimes forget to return the gesture. But this is a wonderful distraction from what I want to ask.
While I prep the sandwiches, he tells me about the cars he fixed today. I couldn’t repeat back what he said. Too many words related to cars I should probably know, but I don’t. That’s what mechanics are for.
“Okay, the sandwiches are ready.”
