Page 70 of The Write Choice

Katie

I’m scooping peas and mashed potatoes on plates to a rhythmic chorus of “we hate vegetables” when the door to the garage bursts open. The kids go blissfully silent, look at each other wide-eyed, then take off running.

“Daddy!” they yell as they practically tackle him to the floor. He scoops Christine up and pulls Mason in for a tight hug.

“Mom said you wouldn’t be home,” Mason accuses.

“I’m sorry.” Brandon starts turning to go back the way he came. “Should I go, then?”

“No!” Mason giggles. I smile quietly at the sound, and Brandon catches my eye from across the room.

“We hate vegetables!” Christine shouts as she pounds her little fists on Brandon’s shoulder in time with her words. Brandon rubs his ear, wincing.

“Welcome home,” I say sardonically, though my heart is beating faster at the sight of him. I might be more excited than the kids that he’s home.

He chuckles. “What’s for dinner?”

“Vegetables,” I joke. “And meatloaf.”

“It’s a good thing your mom hides vegetables in the meatloaf, then, since you won’t eat the ones on your plate,” he says to the kids with fake enthusiasm.

Mason rolls his eyes. “She does not.”

“I don’t?” I ask, playing along.

“Mom. No, you don’t,” he insists. Then, he comes over to inspect the meatloaf in question. “Wait, do you? What’s this orange thing?”

I lean closer and squint where he’s pointing. There’s nothing orange there. “A piece of carrot,” I deadpan.

“Oh no. You’re not getting me to eat vegetables by hiding them in meatloaf. No way.” He folds his thin arms across his chest, stomping his foot.

“We hate vegetables!” Christine screams again. This time, Brandon puts her down to get some distance.

I sigh deeply. “Relax. I wouldn’t dream of trying to trick you with hidden vegetables.” Then, I smirk. “I’d much rather torture you with vegetables in plain sight.”

Mason groans as if I’m the absolute worst person on the face of the planet. It feels like almost overnight, he became so dramatic. He’s really been letting this new facet of his personality shine, too. It’s delightful.

“Okay, buddy. Why don’t you take your sister and go wash up for dinner.” Brandon ruffles his hair. Mason swats him away with another noise of disgust, then takes Christine’s hand, leading her out.

Brandon hangs up his coat in the closet. As he walks back to the kitchen, he unbuttons his shirtsleeves and rolls them up, his forearms and cat tattoo on full display. I run my tongue over my bottom lip as I watch him. Now that we’ve scratched that particular itch, I find it’s all I can think about, especially when he’s in the room. Especially when I can see his ink.

He must notice how unexpectedly turned on I am, because he crosses the room in two long strides and cups my cheek with his hand. He curls his fingers into my hair, loosening my messy bun and using it for purchase to angle my head. He kisses me deeply, but I’m still holding the serving spoon I was using to dish out the vegetables, so I feel both completely swept up and awkwardly grounded at the same time.

Brandon breaks the kiss, then plants a quick one on my cheek before leaning against the counter and dipping a finger in the mashed potatoes.

I swat at him with the spoon. “Get out of there.”

“You know mashed potatoes are my favorite.” He suggestively licks the stolen dollop off his finger, rubbing his tongue around it again and again.

My insides turn molten, but the kids are going to come back any second, so I busy myself with taking down another plate and serving a huge heap of potatoes. “I have been making them every night for a week, trying to summon you.”

He chuckles at my sarcasm. “I deserved that,” he says. He kisses my cheek again, taking the plate from me and serving himself some meatloaf before making his way to the table.

“Excuse me,” I say pointedly. He frowns at me, confused, so I forcefully indicate the bowl of peas, raising my eyebrows to suggest he take some as a good example for the kids.

“Oh,” he says, finally catching on. “No thanks. I hate vegetables.”

The kids, having chosen that exact moment to re-enter the room, cheer. My nostrils flare as I stare him down. He’s joking, of course, but I’m not amused. I have to play bad cop all day. The least he can do is eat some damn peas.