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An Excerpt From: HONEYMOON’S OVER
Copyright © KELLI SCOTT, 2014
All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.
“Hey there, gorgeous.”
“Hi, honey.” She shut off the faucet, wiping her hands on a
dishtowel. “How was work?”
“Excellent.” He tossed his suit jacket casually over the
sofa back. She eyed him. Eyed the jacket. Eyed him again. He plucked the jacket
up and hooked it on a peg by the front door to avoid her derision. “Boss gave
me a couple new accounts today.”
He made it sound like a good thing instead of a pain in his
ass. He added his tie to the peg by the door and unbuttoned the top two buttons
of his dress shirt. Flipping through the mail on a side table, he shook off the
irritation of seeing her maiden name—Marshall. Not even a hyphen—Macy
Marshall-Dade, which, by the way, sounded very cool. No acknowledgement
whatsoever of their very expensive union. He decided not to push the
subject—yet. But dropping hints hadn’t worked so far.
“That’s great, Bry.”
They met in the center of the living room where she looped
her arms around his neck. He squeezed her tightly, letting go of more stress. Please
don’t let this ever end. Macy was the eye of the storm called life. He
thought of her as a beacon keeping him on course. With her red hair and
freckles, he could spot her in a sea of people. Hell, he could smell her
lavender scent in a crowd.
He playfully swatted her butt and she valiantly attempted to
hide a delighted smile. “How was your day?”
She recounted her day at the preschool where she worked.
Macy had her degree in education but couldn’t find a job in her desired field
of teaching middle-grade English, settling instead at a preschool. It was good
experience for her resume, a steady paycheck until something better shook loose
and damn good parenting experience for the future. After a few minutes of
listening to her recap, sounded to him like her day was filled with nose wiping,
finger painting and nap taking.
She kissed him sweetly. “What were you going to make for
dinner?”
Bryan groaned. It was his turn to cook. Her turn
to clean. Although, she’d just finished cleaning the kitchen from last night
when it had been his turn to clean. None of the other guys at work mentioned
having to cook dinner. Were they too emasculated to admit it out loud? Or am
I the only pussy-whipped man on the planet? “I completely forgot. How ’bout
I run out and get something or order a pizza?”
She planted her hands on her waist. “We’re saving for a down
payment on a house, Bryan. Every penny counts.”
The American dream of home ownership would dash his hopes of
pepperoni pizza. He wanted to point out to her that he made three times more
money, but that would make him a first-rate asshole who made three times more
money. Besides, she’d agreed to cook four nights a week, he cooked only twice
and they ate out or ordered in the seventh night. Usually on Friday or Saturday
date night. Sometimes date night was a movie out. Other times it was a movie
in, depending on the checkbook balance. She had a five-year, ten-year and
twenty-year plan for their future and apparently pizza would throw a monkey
wrench in the works.
“I’m sorry. You’re right.” He held his hands up in
surrender. “You’re always right.”
She tilted her head. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing.” He unfastened the buttons at his wrists and began
rolling up his sleeves. He’d rather cook than wash dishes anyhow, not that he’d
washed the dishes the night before. Slipped his mind. He’d also rather cook
than fight since he couldn’t have his first choice of numbing his mind with TV
until bedtime. “You’re right, that’s all.”
Macy inclined her head to the other side. “Am…am I annoying
you?”
“No.” He snorted a laugh. “Where did that come from? I’m
just all about keeping the peace and spreading harmony.”
“Did you just say peace and harmony?”
He detected a hint of hostility, but without the telltale
clues as to why. Dinner? Dishes? Anita? Of
course. He should have known. Sometimes his wife’s best friend was his
staunch ally, other times she completely threw him under the bus. Apparently it
was bus day. “How is Anita?” He stopped himself from asking how much lunch
cost. Probably more than a large pepperoni pizza.
“Forget about Anita. Do you want to have sex?”
“What?” Sounded like a trick question to him. Yes. Always. Why do you ask?
“Sex.” Macy yanked her shirt over her head and tossed it to
the floor, which was very uncharacteristic of her tidy tendencies. “Do you want
to—?”
“Yes.” He decided her trick question sounded more like a
stupid question.
