31. A Housewarming Gift

31

A HOUSEWARMING GIFT

Asher

I’ve lived with a few women over the years. The last one was Lila, a bakery owner I dated for—no surprise—six months, my usual expiration date. I didn’t plan to live together so soon, if at all. But when her lease ran out, she moved in with me for a month. In that short time, I realized we were incompatible. It wasn’t that she was a slob, though she was, or that our schedules clashed, though they did.

It was that she wanted more. I didn’t.

Story of my life. She was outgoing and generous, and still, I couldn’t fall for her. Because I’m broken.

So, living with someone? It’s not exactly new to me. But what is new is this wild anticipation as I head home. It’s been following me since Everly told me about the TV piece. It chased me on the flight home; it nipped at my heels as the team jet landed. And it’s swirling around me as I drive home from the players’ lot. It’s Friday night, and I’m pulling up to my house—full of jitters.

Or maybe excitement? I’m not sure which one is winning the battle inside me, or maybe both are.

I can’t stand how much I want to see her. It’s surreal.

I park in the garage and close it, ready to race up the steps into my home when my phone rings. Her name flashes on the screen.

“Hey, what’s up?” I ask, half-expecting her to tell me to close my eyes as I go inside. I bet she has some surprise waiting for me. That’d be so very her.

“I’m stuck here,” she says, frustration creeping into her voice.

“Where?”

“At the arena. Eleanor wanted to go over a million options—timeline, materials, everything. The crew finished priming the walls earlier this week. I drew the grid for the outline. And she wants to finalize some details since she’s trying to fast-track this so I can start painting it next week. Which means…I’m stuck here late. But guess what?”

“What?”

“I made you something.”

I stop in my tracks at the door that leads from the garage into the house. “Food?”

“My famous mac and cheese.”

My stomach growls. “With the cheddar, Monterey Jack, and cream cheese?”

“Yes, the one and only. There’s some waiting for you in a vintage casserole dish I got at Goodwill. I went full 1950s housewife with it. I’m playing the part.”

Playing the part .

Those words should remind me that this is just for show. But when a vision of her in a tight retro dress and apron, and holding a martini pops into my head, I like it too much to be bothered by the performance of it all. “So, did I miss the martini too?”

She laughs, her smile coming through the phone. “Maybe I’ll make that when the camera crew comes tomorrow. Good idea?”

“They’ll buy it,” I say.

“I’ll be home later,” she promises.

“Okay,” I reply, trying to sound upbeat, but the disappointment sneaks in. I do love her mac and cheese, but I wanted to see her. It’s been a week and a half on the road—New York, Boston, Toronto, then Vegas on the way back. I miss her.

“And we will do our best impression of the Greers,” she adds.

I brighten. “We will.”

“No repeats of that brunch.”

I adopt the older man’s voice, raspy and with a wink in it as I imagine him. “ I remember the honeymoon phase—we couldn’t keep our hands off each other .”

“Hey! I want a honeymoon. You’d better not stiff me on Paris.”

I laugh. She has no idea how much I want to take her anywhere. “When the season ends after The Cup, I’ll take you there,” I say, meaning it, but knowing it won’t really happen.

“I’ll start planning,” she says.

Briefly, I feel a twinge in my chest. It’s late-February; I’m sure this will be over well before the season ends. We’ll get through this piece tomorrow, and then surely, we’ll fade quietly from interest.

Shame .

But what can I do?

I hang up and head inside. The second I turn the corner of the steps onto the main level, the air rushes out of my lungs. The place looks…different.

Maeve doesn’t mess around. She’s never done anything halfway, and this proves it. I look around, taking it all in—the plants, the tarot deck she nicknamed Tatiana on the coffee table, along with the books too. Art books from her favorites: Lichtenstein, Klimt, Cindy Sherman, Barbara Kruger. Even a book on graffiti art.

I pick it up, intrigued, but then my gaze shifts to something else—a photo on the table behind the couch in a simple silver frame. My chest tightens as I step closer.

It’s…our wedding photo.

Holy shit .

I walk over and pick it up. In the picture, I’m holding her hand as Hitch reads the exchange of vows. I’m wearing that ruffled suit, she’s in that Marilyn dress, and I’m looking at her like I can’t look away.

I still can’t. It takes me a long time to put it down.

When I do, I spin around and check out the plant table. She arranged her living ones with my Lego ones. But what’s that? Something shiny rests against the orchid. I head over to a small oval mirror with a sketch on it that looks vaguely familiar. When I reach it, my heart sprints. That’s…holy shit. I pick it up. It’s the sketch of the couple almost kissing she sent me last week. But she’s painted them into the corner of the mirror. Next to them are the words: Keep snacks handy at all times .

The first piece of advice her friends gave me weeks ago. I had no idea the sketch she sent me would find its way into a piece of her art. But of course, it would. It feels like a secret message to me, which is such a ridiculous thing to think. And yet, here I am, thinking it. Like I did last week with the image and the words for you, I run my finger along the advice. A key to Maeve.

But I know another key to Maeve—making her realize her work matters. And it matters greatly to me. I trot down to the garage, grab a hammer and a nail, and return to the living room, grabbing the little mirror.

Then I go to the foyer and hang it up—right by the front door.

Where it belongs.

Once I return the hammer, I wander into the kitchen, where I spot a dish rack full of her mugs. I smile stupidly. Yeah, this is all for show. I’d do well to remember that. But damn, did she ever understand the assignment. She left her imprint everywhere. My favorite is the white mug in the sink with the words I’m a Fucking Ray of Sunshine on the side and her lipstick marks on the rim. Raspberry. She’s already drunk from this mug.

I might stare at the shape of her lips for a good long time. It’s only when I realize I’m jealous of a mug that I tear myself away, letting it clatter in the stainless steel sink before I do something like, I don’t know, drink from it just to touch the spot where her lips have been. I wouldn’t put that past me at this point.

I go upstairs, and once I turn into the bedroom, I’m caught in a tractor beam, drawn to another photo, the one on my nightstand. It’s one more shot of us at our wedding. And I’m kissing her.

I walk over to it, in a goddamn trance.

I sink down on the bed like I’m in another world, picking it up, studying it, and getting a little lost in time.

Maeve’s eyes are closed, and she looks like every one of her kissing paintings. Like she needs to be kissed by me. Badly.

I swallow past the dryness in my throat then scrub a hand along my jaw, taking this in. What she did with the mugs and the plants and the books—and most of all, the pictures. She made it a home.

But she’s not the only one who can play house.

I go downstairs, rifle through the packages I asked Maeve to bring in for me from the lock box, and find the one I’m looking for. I rip it open and grin, pleased.

Yep, this is perfect.

Maeve had the right idea with the wedding pictures. But I made a promise to her brother the other week, and mostly to myself, to look out for her. To protect her. To show the world that she’s fucking mine.

I ordered prints of some pictures of her, and had them framed. Photos from over the years, including the most recent one—a shot of her flipping me the double bird.

My personal favorite. I add them all around the house, setting down Quick-Draw Maeve in the T-shirt on my nightstand when my phone buzzes.

Maeve: Another hour or so. Save some mac and cheese for me!

I type absently, my mind elsewhere.

Asher: I will .

I’m not thinking of food because when I look at the photo of her once more, something clicks. Something she said when she gave herself that nickname back in Vegas. Something…demonstrative.

I know the perfect housewarming gift for my wife. I check the time. It’s nine. Not too late. We live in a big city that caters to all sorts of appetites around the clock. I google the hours of a nearby shop, then grin like a cocky fucker when I see it’s open till midnight.

I’m out of there in no time.

But traffic is a nightmare on Friday nights. It’s slow-going, and by the time I make it to the shop, Maeve’s texted me.

Maeve: Well, I checked everywhere and can’t find you. I can only conclude you’ve been kidnapped by aliens.

Shit. She beat me home. But as I’m grabbing the last item, I fire off a quick reply.

Asher: Back soon. Just needed to grab…something.

It’s vague, but I can’t spoil the surprise.

Maeve: Happy grabbing. Your wife is exhausted.

A jolt of tension hits me. I really hope she’s not overworking herself.

Asher: Get some rest, okay?

But there’s no response. And that’s good. Really, that’s good. I want her to get plenty of sleep. Once I finish the purchase, I hop back in the car, gift bag in hand. By the time I pull into the garage, it’s almost ten-thirty. No further replies from her. I bet she’s already hit the sack.

That settles some of my worries. I head inside, set the bag on the kitchen table, and make my way upstairs.

The lights are still on, and there she is—face-first on my bed, her bra next to her. But otherwise she’s still wearing her clothes—leggings and a sweatshirt. Her hair’s in a messy bun that’s coming undone.

Two thoughts slam into me at once.

First, she looks too damn good in my bed. Second, I’m stupidly thrilled she chose my bed, not the guest room, to sleep in. A third thought crashes down next. I hope she sleeps better than she ever has here at my house .

I turn around, head down the hall, and grab a blanket from the closet. When I return, I gently cover her. She sighs softly, murmurs something incoherent, and rolls over, her lips curving into a faint smile. Her eyes flutter open for a moment, heavy with sleep. I’m a little jealous, but also wholly happy for her. She needs it.

“Hi,” she says, but her lids don’t stay open for more than a second or two.

I’m not even sure she’s awake, but I sit down next to her. “Hey,” I murmur back, gently setting a hand on her shoulder.

“You look…nice,” she says with a dopey grin.

“So do you,” I reply, my voice low and rough.

“I was…thinking about…this,” she says, her words slow and slurred.

“About what?” I ask, dying to know what’s on her mind.

“Seeing you,” she says, almost in a dreamlike state.

“Yeah?” The tension inside me is near unbearable.

“Yeah. I dreamed…”

But she turns quiet. I wish she’d wake the fuck up and tell me what she dreamed about me. “Dreamed about what?” I ask, leaning in, ready to hang onto her every word.

But she doesn’t finish. Instead, her breath comes out in a soft, deep exhale. Her chest rises as her hand flutters to her chest, then glides down her body. Over her breasts. Down her belly. And just like that, the flames eat me alive.

Her hand slips between her thighs as she falls back into deep sleep.

There’s only so much I can take.

I grit my teeth, suppress a groan, and head straight to the bathroom. I’m naked in seconds, stepping under the shower, letting the hot water wash over me, imagining her here last night .

Out there tonight .

And all the things I want to do to her.