Page 53 of Compassion

“Is that a yes, Mr. Fix It?”

“That’s a fuck yes, sweetheart.”

Excitedly, I start towards the kitchen area with him trailing behind me. “Have any problems today?”

“Just painting behind the toilet. That area’s such a bitch.”

Placing the bottle on the island is done at the same time I meet his stare again. “I’m sure it’s fine. No one ever looks there. And if they do look there, the bigger questions arewhyare they looking there, and do we really want them in our house?”

Archer lightly laughs while inching over to retrieve the glasses. Once they’re near the wine, he casually asks, “Is this why you’re home so late? Stopped at the liquor store?”

Guilt struggles not to gloss over my gaze. “Um…not exactly.”

“Not…exactly…” He slowly echoes the words on a cocked head motion. His eyes sweep my frame from head to toe prior to noting. “That’s not what you wore to work today.”

My mouth twitches to move, yet the most I manage to do is shake my head.

“You’dneverwear something like this to work. The dress is too short. Way too fucking short. You’d flash an entire preschool class acting outThe Crayon Box that Talkedin it.”

He’s not wrong.

“And those boots are all wrong. Sexy…Very fucking sexy, but wrong. You don’t wear boots to work of any kind. Just flats. You like to slip them off under your desk or while you’re in the reading circle or playing and hide and hunt the book.”

Gahhhh, can we stop for a minute and appreciate how much he knows about me? I meanreallyknows? Chris couldn’t even remember the name of the academy I worked for.

Displeasure deepens in his expression at the same time he folds his arms protectively across his chest. “Where did you change?”

“Work.”

“Whydid you change?”

“I um…,” a nervous bite is taken out of my bottom lip, “I had a date.”

There’s no missing the way his frame stiffens at the new information. “A date.”

“Really it was more like just a drink.”

“A drink.”

“One glass of wine, no food, and lots of talk about books!”

For some reason the mention of our conversation topic seems to spark more outrage than anything else. “Books.”

“It wasn’t like that!” I defensively squeak, although to be honest I don’t know what I’m arguing against since he hasn’t done anything other than repeat the words I’ve spoken. “See, Dmitri is a pediatric doctor-”

“Of course he fucking is.”

“-that works in the same hospital as my mother-”

“Because of course he fucking does.”

“And she’s been trying to get us together forweeks-”

“Weeks?” Missing the hurt in his croaked question is impossible. “You’ve been…You’ve been trying to go out with this guy forweeks?”

Shit! Wrong words! Wrong words!

“Archer, I-”

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