Page 35 of My Husband Problem

Declan’s watching me with a smile. “What? That you’d take them?”

I nod. “And that I’d need help. Two days later, this whole thing had been built in my backyard, and I’d been given a crash course. One of my neighbors, Letty…” I point to the house tothe west. “…still stops by to check on us and is my go-to for any questions or issues I have.”

“Four months ago, you just had a regular backyard and then within a couple of days suddenly you had an entire duck haven and eight pets?”

I grin. “Pretty much. I’ve learned that that’s kind of how things happen around here. Like a hurricane—it starts suddenly, is over pretty quick, you barely remember what happened, and everything is rearranged after.”

“You’re okay with that?”

He’s watching me with true interest, and I shift my weight from foot to foot. I’ve never been this close to Declan for this long when it’s just been the two of us.

“I’ve gotten that way. I guess I’m not really a stranger to having things upended all of a sudden and having to pivot.”

He winces, visibly, clearly knowing what I’m referring to. Obviously, Declan and I have never talked about my injury and the end of my career, but I’m used to acknowledging it and talking about it by now. I’ve spoken about it, written about it, been interviewed about it over and over.

“Do you want some breakfast?” I say, suddenly desperate to end this conversation.

“Yeah, sure,” he says, following my lead, though he seems hesitant to drop the topic.

I really need him to drop the topic.

Getting personal with my husband is a terrible idea.

He follows me into the kitchen, and I am pleased that the purposely horrible sausage and gravy on the stove at least smells good.

The freshly baked buttermilk biscuits are resting on the stovetop, and I go to the cabinet to retrieve a plate.

“You made this?” Declan asks, watching me plate sausage and biscuits and sliced and quartered strawberries.

I nod as I hand him the plate. “I’m learning to cook a lot of southern dishes,” I fib. I am because Patty, my neighbor across the street, is lovely and keeps bringing me produce that I have no use for. When I finally admitted that to her, she determined to teach me what to do with it other than eating it raw and putting it in salads.

I’ve learned a few things, and now I intend to use them against my husband.

He looks at the plate. “Okay.”

This is far heavier than anything he typically eats in the morning. Hell, it’s probably heavier than he normally eats at any time of the day.

The same is true for me, for that matter.

One thing I will admit about living with Declan for the short time I did, our grocery needs matched up pretty well.

We both preferred smoothies in the morning, light lunches, and protein and vegetable-forward dinners.

We didn’t eat any of them together, but Declan’s cook always provided enough for me as well.

He takes the plate to the little Formica-topped table near the window and sits. The kitchen isn’t huge, and I’m acutely aware of the space he fills.

He smells so good. Even after a morning workout.

That’s as unfair as that T-shirt he’s wearing.

“So did you just fall in love with this house when you first saw it?” he asks.

I look at him with surprise. “What do you mean?”

“It’s just so interesting, and it’s clear you like it. Was that immediate or did it grow on you?”

How does he know I like it? Just because I haven’t changed it? “I actually was just trying to buy a house quickly, so I had a place to live.”