I chuckle. “You’re making this tough on me. I won’t let Roman have a Popsicle before dinner, but you stopped for ice cream?”
“Yes. In case dinner doesn’t go well.”
I head toward the house with Roman on my shoulders and Dorothy right beside me. “Not well as in my culinary skills, or not well as in bad company?”
“I don’t know yet.”
I glance over, but she gives nothing away. That’s okay with me. I want to discover the layers of Dorothy Mayhem by following her pace. Julie crippled me in a way that feels equally devastating and pathetic. There’s no switch to turn off my love for her, all those years of marriage, college, careers, a child … I wonder if I’ll ever find a switch, or if I’ll simply have to find a brighter light.
At the moment, Dorothy shines, and it thrills me because I can’t pinpoint what it is about her that brightens my day.
“Mmm … it doesn’t smell bad in here.” Dorothy closes her eyes, taking a slow inhale after I shut the front door behind us and set Roman down to go play with his toys.
I wait for her to open her eyes. One, because I like looking at them. Two, because I like how they look at me.
When she grins, I can’t help but wonder if she tastes like chocolate, if she closes her eyes when she kisses, or if her mind goes to the same questionably inappropriate places mine does.
“I’m trying really hard to think the best of your comments. Can I take the not bad as meaning good? Or is that too presumptuous? Does your not bad mean not awesome but it could be worse?”
Slipping off her flats, she wiggles her toes painted in white toenail polish and stares at them while she delivers her answer. “Definitely good. Not meaty or spicy. I’m already regretting the tacos.” Her nose wrinkles.
“Tacos?”
She nods. “I got home early, and my dad fed Orville and Wilbur, so I had way more time than originally anticipated. My parents were going out for an early dinner because they’re old. I’ve discovered that’s what old people do. So I followed them to their favorite Mexican restaurant. But I only had three tacos and a basket of chips and guacamole. So I can probably take down some pasta.”
God … my cheek muscles ache. I can’t stop grinning. “I have two older sisters, I was married for years, and I see plenty of young female patients. But I’m not sure I’ve ever been around a grown woman, as petite as you, making references to taking down pasta.”
“I’ve mastered the art of burning calories.”
“Oh? Then you should sell that secret. People make a lot of money off weight loss breakthroughs.” I jerk my head toward the kitchen for her to follow me.
“Not mine.” She laughs. “I just walk, hike, and bike the trails. Bounce on my trampoline, and chase Gemma, Orville, and Wilbur. People don’t like those weight loss tips. I broke my leg several years ago and gained fifteen pounds because I stopped moving but didn’t stop eating.”
“How’d you break your leg? Trampoline?” I lift a glass. “Can I get you something to drink? Wine? Beer? Lemonade? Water?”
“Water, please. And I broke my leg on a Segway. One of the city tours.”
“You took a Segway city tour?”
“No. A tourist on one hit a pothole in a crosswalk and crashed into me.” She curls her hair behind her ears, gaze surveying my kitchen. “You like to cook?”
“Yes. Ice water?”
“Yes, please.”
I hand her the glass of water. “Are you serious about the Segway?” Another unexpected chuckle rumbles my chest.
“Uh … yeah.” She lifts her skirt and traces the scar on her leg. “I had to have surgery.”
“Nice scar.”
Legs. I say scar, but I mean legs. Dorothy Mayhem has incredible legs. Not legs for miles like a runway model. Nope. I’m done with those legs, especially since they walked away from me. The legs on display before me are petite, muscular, sun-kissed, and riddled with more than one scar and several scrapes and bruises. They look like the legs of a hardworking woman. A woman who doesn’t give up. A woman who sticks it out during the hard times. And the fact that she dresses them in flowing, girly skirts only makes them that much sexier.
Yes, my fascination (slight obsession) with Dorothy Mayhem has happened quickly—a toxic mix of hating my wife and going so long without getting laid. At least, that’s what I tell myself. I tell myself a lot of things to get through the day. Eventually, I can’t distinguish truth from intention. If I look and act like a functional male, I’ll actually be one. It sure sounds good to me at the moment.
“Did you get a fair settlement from the lawsuit?”
“What lawsuit?” She sips her water.