“I love you, my girl. I’m proud of you,” she says with a fierce sort of belief only a mother can possess. “You’re going to succeed in this marriage. Despite our current situation, he’s a good man.”
“Not from where I’m standing,” I mumble.
“That sounds suspiciously like a pout,” she lectures. “Go bake something and cheer up.”
“Yes, ma’am!” My nose stings as I hold back another round of tears. “I love you, Mom. This is all going to work out.”
“Yes, it is,” she says warmly. “And I love you, too.”
And for the first time I can remember, we end a conversation where we’re lying to each other. Because based on Ian’s cold expression as I give him his phone, I don’t think this is going to work out at all.
Chapter Eleven
Sophie…
To do list 6.14
Bake until you’re not so deep into self-pity.
Keep baking.
If that doesn’t work, move on to cleansing rage.
If that doesn’t work, hit Michael on the back of the head with Davina’s cast iron frying pan. Then clean it properly so as not to ruin the finish.
That is, if he ever comes home.
“This looks like a massive cocaine bust gone bad.”
Shrieking, I whip around and almost hurl my wooden spoon before realizing it’s Michael, standing in the wreckage of his kitchen. “Oh, it’s you.” I manage, pressing my hand over my pounding heart.
“Aye. I live here,” he says. His suit jacket is slung over his shoulder, his collar’s unbuttoned and his tie loosened. All he needs is to shout, “Honey, I’m home!” for the perfect image of domestic bliss.
After this baking frenzy, I’m all out of flour and sugar anddefinitelyall out of bliss.
While there are piles of cooling cookies covering the island, a cake waiting to be frosted on the counter next to the fridge and two more pans of brownies in the oven, it’s not because I was ready to greet him at the door with a drink and a plate of sweets. I am, however, tempted to throw a mixing bowl at him. I may be wearing an apron, but I’m no 50’s housewife.
“Did ye get tired of Davina’s cooking?” he asks, rolling up his sleeves.
I’m mesmerized by each inch of tanned forearm being revealed, thick with muscle. His fingers are long and elegant, and…
“Oh! No, her cooking is incredible,” I turn away, hastily stacking two cookie sheets in the dishwasher. “I was just trying out some new recipes.”
“So I see.”
Looking over my shoulder, I see an amused smile flicker over his lips before disappearing. “I’m used to being busy,” I say, shutting the dishwasher door a bit harder than is necessary. “There’s not much to do here.”
His tone is biting, like the first frost of winter. “Until I know what you’re responsible for, I’m keeping ye under close watch.”
My fingers tighten on the counter. “Mom and Itoldyou-”
“I know what you told us,” he says sharply. “That means nothing. You’re going to have to earn my- my family’s trust back.”
Such a pompous asshole.
“I see,” I manage to grind out. When I turn around, he’s already out of the kitchen and heading upstairs.
The kitchen is clean again, I’m searching for containers to house all these baked goods and Michael has gone from the masterbedroom to his study, shutting the door firmly. It’s sound-proofed, of course, so I have no idea what he’s doing there.
