Another beat passed. “I miss it,” I said, without thinking.
Her smile faltered, just a little. “Miss what?”
“Not being able to wipe my own ass without someone offering to do it for me.”
Winona wrinkled her nose. “Ew.”
I couldn’t help it, I let out a short laugh.
She tilted her head. “So youdoknow how to do that.”
I narrowed my eyes, swiveling for the fridge. I pulled the doors open, leaning on them. “I wipe my own ass,” I grumbled. “For the record.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
My lips threatened to turn up. I made myself focus on the task at hand.
There was way too much food in here. Sal had someone come by on Sundays to stock up. And yes, to do my laundry. I had no idea what to pull out. I didn’t know what she liked. I could ask, but I doubted she’d give me a straight answer at this point. I knew there were little pita chips in the cupboard, so I grabbed several jars of condiment and dip-looking things. As I set everything on the table, finishing by opening the chips and emptying them into a bowl, Winona slid onto one of the barstools on the end of the island.
I leaned back against the counter, keeping the corner of the island between us.
Winona didn’t move for the food. She just watched me like she wasn’t sure what I was going to do next.
I guess she didn’t. Hell,Ididn’t.
Finally, she looked at the jars in front of her.
“You said you hadn’t eaten dinner,” I explained.
“This isn’t dinner.”
“It is for me.”
She lifted a brow.
“Sometimes,” I said.
“And the rest of the time?”
I glowered at her, sensing that beer or whiskey wouldn’t make me look very good. “You’re sure you don’t have kids?”
Something flashed on her face, but it was gone a moment later. “I told you I’m not a mother.”
But there was something there.
“You look after someone,” I said. I thought of someone I knew, tucked in a home back in Seattle, a place my brothers wouldn’t allow me to fund solo. Guilt splashed through me as it did more and more lately, for being so far away.
Winona’s jaw flickered. Now she was the irritated one. “I’m not here to give you my life story, Mr. Harrington.”
“Mitchell.”
“When I feel like it, I’ll call you Mitchell.”
I frowned to keep the smirk off my face. Then I leaned over, pushing a jar toward her. “I’m right,” I said. “But I won’t ask you to talk about it.”
“I could ask you aboutyourfamily, you know.”
It was a statement. She didn’t ask. But I told her anyway. I’d tell her anything she wanted to know. “I’ve got two older brothers. You know one of them. They’re both much better people than I am.”
