Page 110 of Over Her Dead Body

“Then I’m considerably more impressed.”

“I picked up some delivery work.”

“When?”

“A few evenings this week.”

I had worked late twice myself. Once, I had come home and gone straight to bed. Apparently, we had reached the stage of marriage where we needed to compare receipts to find out how the other person was doing.

“Is this a regular thing?”

“If I want it to be.”

He took the money from my hand and put it back in the envelope.

“Pick your table.”

By Saturday, he was sitting on the kitchen floor surrounded by cardboard, loose screws, and instructions he had abandoned several steps too early.

“You bought it.”

“You picked it.”

“I thought we were going together.”

“I thought you might enjoy missing the part where I carried it up the stairs.”

It occupied most of the kitchen.

I set my bag down and pressed one corner. The opposite leg lifted.

“It wobbles.”

“Stop doing that.”

“Putting my hand on it?”

“You’ve found its weakness. There’s no need to humiliate it.”

Reid reached for my hips and pulled me between his knees.

“There are six screws left,” I said.

“Extras.”

“They don’t include extras.”

“That seems irresponsible.”

He kissed the strip of skin between my blouse and skirt. I put my hands on his shoulders, intending to push him away long enough to inspect the instructions.

I did not.

Later, we ate takeout at the table with one folded napkin beneath the shortest leg.

The envelope marked TABLE lay empty on the counter.

Reid had put out the good plates. We owned two, which made every dinner for two an occasion and discouraged guests.