Page 40 of The Work Wife

After dressing in his usual jeans and T-shirt, Wes followed the sound of grumbling into the kitchen.

Jamie was preparing breakfast. Or making a mess, as was usually the case when she cooked.

Maybe the marriage was a sham, but he kind of liked being part of a real family. Even if one of the members wanted to kill him.

Chapter 8

“You’re doing it wrong,” Weston said when he came to stand next to Jamie by the counter.

“How can I possibly be doing it wrong? It’s a mix with two ingredients.”

“You never add a dry compound to wet. You should incorporate wet in increments into the dry. See how the powder is resting on top the water?” He shook his head at her. “And here I thought you were brilliant.”

“Well, I proved I wasn’t all that smart when I married you.” She laughed and shoved him with her hip as she spotted movement out of the corner of her eye.

Her father was leaning up against the doorway, watching them.

She quickly played back their exchange since Weston had come into the kitchen. They hadn’t said anything to give them away. They sounded like a normal married couple bickering about nothing.

“I’m making pancakes,” she said to her father with a smile.

“And apparently you still insist on doing it wrong.” Her dad shook his head, but there was an endearing smile on his face.

“There’s coffee. I can’t make that wrong.” She nodded toward the pot.

“No. You’ve been able to make coffee since you were eight.”

“When I started drinking it,” she recalled.

“That’s why you’re so short,” Weston joked.

“Five five is not short. It’s average.” She looked up at the six feet three inches of her husband and stuck out her tongue.

As she and Weston tossed barbs back and forth, she noticed her father discreetly go to the cupboard where they kept the medicine. The bottom shelf was filled with bottles. The sight of them nearly made her drop the plate in her hand.

Rather than ask and allow him to downplay it, she continued her banter with Weston as she put the perfectly good pancakes on the table.

They sat, and Wes held the plate out to her father after serving Jamie first.

“Are you scared?” her dad said.

“Terrified,” Wes answered.

“The trick is to keep a glass of orange juice at hand in case you bite into one of those balls of dry mix.”

“Good idea.” Wes nodded as if her father had just shared the secret of life.

They chatted easily throughout the meal, but Jamie could practically feel those pill bottles, poised and ready to destroy her happy life. Was her father sick again?

She glanced across the table, studying him closely. He looked okay. Maybe there were a few more wrinkles and a little less hair than a few years ago. Both conditions he would gladly blame on her if mentioned.

She and Weston did the dishes together while her father read the paper.

“Did you want to go for a walk on the beach?” Wes asked when they’d finished.

“You go ahead. I’ll catch up with you in a minute.”

He kissed her on the top of the head before leaving the room. Well played, she thought.