“Huh. I thought the first thing you’d do would be to give a double middle finger to the sling.”
“I can do that already.”
She demonstrates, and I grin again as I step into the kitchen with her.
“Do not do my dishes,” she says.
“Housekeeper coming to do them?” I ask.
“No. I’ll do them—Duncan.”
I sidestep her attempt at stealing the clean plate out of my hand as I start unloading her dishwasher. “Sorry. Can’t help myself. It’s an illness. I’m seeing a therapist, but we’re not making much progress yet on breaking my dishwasher obsession.”
The heat coming off her glare is a fraction of what it should be, and she doesn’t stop me when I grab the next clean plate out of the dishwasher.
Addie’s way of taking help.
I have a fuckton of admiration for her independence and strength until she lets it work against her.
Everyone needs help sometimes.
Look at me yesterday.
“You didn’t call your sister-in-law, did you?” I say as I put the full stack of plates away with the others.
“It’s just a few more days,” she grumbles.
“Paisley’s looking for a job. She has the same sickness as me. It’s genetic. We have to clean. Family theory is that one of ourancestors must’ve drowned in a mud pit and we’re carrying the trauma in our genes. It makes us clean obsessively.”
Addie stares at me over the rim of the to-go mug as she takes a sip of coffee, giving me the same badass stare that she’ll be using on her players when they get back to work after their break.
She knows I’m making shit up.
But after her first sip, her eyes drift shut, her expression relaxes, and her whole body sags against the counter. “Why do they only serve this a few months of the year?”
“They’d serve it to you year-round if you asked.”
She wrinkles her nose. “They’d serve it to you.”
“I told Nikki it was for you. Actually, I don’t get any more unless I have picture proof of you drinking it.”
I get another stare that says she doesn’t know if she believes me or not.
“They all saw the articles,” I tell her.
It’s the truth.
And it’s enough of the truth that I can feel my face turning pink, which doesn’t happen often.
But it’s also not often that I’m referred to asthe boy-half of Daddieto my face.
Addie studies me another moment, her eyes darting across my features, her own cheeks going a shade of pink.
And then she goes back to eating her cantaloupe quietly while I finish unloading and reloading her dishwasher. Anytime I glance at her, she’s watching me.
Just watching.
And occasionally sipping her coffee and drifting off into bliss-land, her complexion back under control.
