Page 6

Hell. “Don’t talk with food in your mouth. I need to go and chat with Uncle Mike for a second, and then I need to get to work. Give me a snuggle before I go?”

Ella reaches out and pats me on the cheek. I’m pretty sure I’ve got peanut butter on my face now. That’s all I get, though, before I’ve lost her attention. Not much of a hugger, my daughter.

When I get out into the living room, Ella’s uncle is man-spreading all over my sofa with one foot propped on the coffee table.

Mike’s perfectly full lips hook into a not-quite smile when I hustle in. He’s impeccably dressed as usual. Hair and beard both trimmed close to his skin, gray suit with a brown pinstripe that sets off his amber eyes and his dark brown skin. Even when he’s judging me, he’s unfairly handsome.

“Brought you coffee.” He nods to a to-go cup sitting on the breakfast table. There’s a perfectly decent machine in his apartment one floor up, but this is one of those fancy drinks from Buzz, Buzz, Buzz downtown.

“Thank you. Would you keep your feet off‌ there, please?” My voice stays low so Ella won’t hear the tension between us. We try to stay friendly in front of other people. Especially her.

He raises one eyebrow. “Off this busted table you got for ten dollars at a yard sale?”

“I’m trying to set a good example for Ella.” Leaning down, I nudge his foot onto the floor as I walk past and head to my bedroom to get dressed. “Oh, and can you please try and get ‌her‌ finish her breakfast? She’s extra distracted this morning.”

I don’t wait for an answer. He’s not likely to give one. Soon as the bedroom door shuts behind me, I strip off and pull on a fresh pair of bikini briefs from the clean laundry hamper. Stupid things crawl up my ass, but the clients like them.

I’m at the closet, pulling on slacks when Michael strolls right‌ in. He shuts the door behind him and leans back against it. “You’re going to give her a complex with all that stressing about food.”

My teeth clench. We’ve had this argument a thousand times. In our friend group, everyone thinks Michael is the smart one. My problem isn’t that it’s true. It’s that he’s always reminding me how I’m falling short.

Taking a breath to try and calm down, I swipe deodorant under my arms while I turn to the closet to find a shirt. “She’s second percentile for weight, Mike. Her doctor threatened to have her hospitalized and tube fed if she doesn’t get more calories in. What do you think is going to upset her more?”

My stomach takes that moment as an opportunity to remind me which option will upset me more. So much for those antacids,

“Her doctor’s an idiot. She’s perfectly healthy.”

I button my shirt and tuck it in hastily, going for a tie next. Privately, I agree with him. Not that I’d say so to his face.

Doctors are mandatory reporters. I’d never risk anybody thinking I’m doing a poor enough job with Ella to try to take her from me. Better I feed her too many waffles than have a social worker breathing down my neck.

“I’m the one who has to answer for it if the doctor doesn’t think she’s getting enough to eat.”

“Maybe you should stop basing your worth on whether some stranger in a white coat thinks you’re a good dad.” Strong hands grip me by the shoulders and spin me around. We stare each other down for so long it’s like we’re stuck in a time warp. Why is it so easy to fall into the eyes of a man who hates my guts?

“Easy for you to say,” I finally manage.

Michael’s expression hardens. “You need to get out of your head. Let’s see you on your knees, huh?”

“You can’t be serious,” I whisper. “I’ve got a client waiting and Ella’s got to get to school.”

Except his low voice always knows how to find the command switch in my brain. Already, my pulse is racing. My fingers tingle and my mouth waters, though I never quite understand why. It’s not like he ever lets me touch him much aside from worshiping his feet.

“Do it fast, then.”

Our little coastal town of Belle Argo, Florida, is awfully humid. A lot of places don’t have carpeting, including this one. My bedroom floor is ‌unforgiving fake hardwood. My brain understands, but my knees protest something fierce.

“Don’t like your morning client anyway,” Mike murmurs above me. “Motherfucker’s too attached.”

“He’s not. And don’t pretend like you care.” I’m not bothering to argue further because it doesn’t matter.

Lately I don’t know how much longer I can keep escorting before it kills me. I also don’t know how to stop.

“You suck at tying ties.” Michael reaches down. With a few rough jerks and pulls, he redoes the knot better than I can. Then he grabs my chin with his thumb and pointer finger, squeezing until I gasp and open my mouth.

He spits. Right. Into. My. Mouth.

“Say thank you.”