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‘What’s in it?’ Mary asks, looking more curious than Alice’s queasy.
‘Fruit.’ Which is not a lie. There’s an apple and I even allowed myself to add two chunks of frozen pineapple to sweeten it. I simply don’t mention spinach, celery, and various nutritional and protein powders.
Alice’s smile looks misshapen. ‘Thank you for breakfast, Thomas.’
Taking her cue from her aunt, Mary nods. ‘Yes, thank you, Thomas.’
The glasses remain untouched.
Leaning against the cabinets on the other side of the island, I raise my own glass to them and take a long drink. The pineapple is a good addition.
Braver than Alice, Mary grabs her glass with both hands and brings it to her mouth. I can tell the exact moment the liquid hits her tongue because her whole body freezes before she slowly lowers the glass back down to the island – her cheeks full like a chipmunk, her eyes wide in panic.
Sighing, I gesture to her glass. ‘You can spit it out.’
Not wasting a second, she does just that – blah-ing and pi-tah-ing as she tries to get every drop out of her mouth.
Alice, drink still untouched in front of her, pushes off the island counter with an overly cheerful smile on her face. ‘French toast?’
* * *
Alice
‘Ta-da!’ Mary jazz hands with her mittens. Not having joined her, she frowns at me until I feel compelled to do so.
Thomas – his expression back to being impassive as soon as we stepped out of the house – waits for Mary to feel that the surprise has been sufficiently celebrated, which for me and the busy onlookers passing by on the sidewalk was thirty seconds ago.
Finally dropping her hands, which don’t meet her sides due to her squishy puffer coat, Mary asks, ‘Are you surprised?’
Thomas’s brow, the one over his now bruise-free eye, arches. ‘At your aunt’s lackluster jazz hands?’ He nods once. ‘Yes. Yes, I am.’
My lips twitch as I don a look of pretend outrage and Mary giggles.
Thomas Moore is funny.
I don’t think many people know this because you’d have to know him to get his dry sense of humor. Otherwise, he just sounds like an asshole.
But I think I’m starting to. Know him, that is.
And not just because of the sex, or maybe it is the sex. Because sex with Thomas is… the redness on my cheeks has nothing to do with the cold New York breeze whipping through Chelsea.
I’ll admit, when I woke this morning to find him gone, I had a little pity party for one while I mentally rehashed everything I said last night before allowing things to get out of hand. For getting too comfortable. For being greedy.
‘No, silly.’ Mary makes a show of rolling her eyes before grabbing his hand and tugging him to the door. ‘Are you surprised about the photography exhibit.’ She points, or I think she does under the cashmere mitten Emily bought her to go with her puffy purple coat, to the Aperture Gallery sign above the door. ‘They have pictures here like the ones you take.’
And then I found him talking trash on Prince Charming and damn near swooned.
Thomas pivots to hold the door open for us and Mary skips inside.
My nerves get the better of me and I pause at the threshold. ‘Is this okay?’
His expression gives me nothing.
‘In the moment, after we came across your dark room while playing hide-and-seek, this seemed like a great idea, but now I—’
‘Alice hid in there!’ Mary throws me under the bus, her cheerful voice drawing the eyes of the other patrons.
Thomas ushers me through the door with his free hand. ‘As Mary set up a Barbie campsite in the basement under my workout bench, I figured one or both of you would’ve seen the darkroom.’
