Perfectly Adequate(19)

She nods. “I got home early, and my dad fed Orville and Wilbur, so I had way more time than originally anticipated. My parents were going out for an early dinner because they’re old. I’ve discovered that’s what old people do. So I followed them to their favorite Mexican restaurant. But I only had three tacos and a basket of chips and guacamole. So I can probably take down some pasta.”

God … my cheek muscles ache. I can’t stop grinning. “I have two older sisters, I was married for years, and I see plenty of young female patients. But I’m not sure I’ve ever been around a grown woman, as petite as you, making references to taking down pasta.”

“I’ve mastered the art of burning calories.”

“Oh? Then you should sell that secret. People make a lot of money off weight loss breakthroughs.” I jerk my head toward the kitchen for her to follow me.

“Not mine.” She laughs. “I just walk, hike, and bike the trails. Bounce on my trampoline, and chase Gemma, Orville, and Wilbur. People don’t like those weight loss tips. I broke my leg several years ago and gained fifteen pounds because I stopped moving but didn’t stop eating.”

“How’d you break your leg? Trampoline?” I lift a glass. “Can I get you something to drink? Wine? Beer? Lemonade? Water?”

“Water, please. And I broke my leg on a Segway. One of the city tours.”

“You took a Segway city tour?”

“No. A tourist on one hit a pothole in a crosswalk and crashed into me.” She curls her hair behind her ears, gaze surveying my kitchen. “You like to cook?”

“Yes. Ice water?”

“Yes, please.”

I hand her the glass of water. “Are you serious about the Segway?” Another unexpected chuckle rumbles my chest.

“Uh … yeah.” She lifts her skirt and traces the scar on her leg. “I had to have surgery.”

“Nice scar.”

Legs. I say scar, but I mean legs. Dorothy Mayhem has incredible legs. Not legs for miles like a runway model. Nope. I’m done with those legs, especially since they walked away from me. The legs on display before me are petite, muscular, sun-kissed, and riddled with more than one scar and several scrapes and bruises. They look like the legs of a hardworking woman. A woman who doesn’t give up. A woman who sticks it out during the hard times. And the fact that she dresses them in flowing, girly skirts only makes them that much sexier.

Yes, my fascination (slight obsession) with Dorothy Mayhem has happened quickly—a toxic mix of hating my wife and going so long without getting laid. At least, that’s what I tell myself. I tell myself a lot of things to get through the day. Eventually, I can’t distinguish truth from intention. If I look and act like a functional male, I’ll actually be one. It sure sounds good to me at the moment.

“Did you get a fair settlement from the lawsuit?”

“What lawsuit?” She sips her water.

“The one against the Segway tour company.”

“It wasn’t their fault. Something was worked out between the woman who crashed into me and the Segway company. Honesty, I’m not sure who paid for what. I just know that my medical expenses and time off work were covered.” She gives me a shoulder shrug. “That’s all that mattered to me. It’s not like I was permanently disabled. And I’m sitting just fine financially.” Another shoulder shrug.

“How un-American of you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Everyone sues for everything.”

“Oh. Ha! Yeah, I suppose that’s true. I’m not a fan of conflict.”

“Are you a fan of cooking?”

She uses the glass to hide her smirk as she pauses it at her mouth and shakes her head. “I can make like … three things.”

“Do tell.” I run warm water over the pasta in the strainer, dump it into the serving bowl, and pour the marinara over the top of it.

“Grilled cheese. Mac and cheese. Bean and cheese microwave burritos. That doesn’t count pouring cereal into a bowl in the morning. Oh! Peanut butter sandwiches and microwave nachos too. That’s five.” Dorothy grins, chin tipped up with so much pride.

“Not pasta?”

“I suppose I could, but I usually make more single-serving meals unless my mom cooks for all of us, which is risky because she’s not any better than I am at cooking. But she’s too stubborn to admit it. I rarely eat with them unless we go out or get takeout.”

“So you live with your parents?” I hold up a finger to pause her response while I call Roman to dinner. “Spaghetti, Roman!”

Dorothy takes a seat at the table as Roman careens around the corner, nearly crashing into me.

“Slow it down.” I pick him up, set him in his Stokke chair at the table, and fasten his bib.

“Do you like spaghetti?” Dorothy asks Roman as I set out the salads and bottles of dressing.

“Um … yes. I like … I like sketti.” He tugs at his bib. “Take it off!” Tugging harder, he growls at me.

“You’ll have sauce all over your clothes if I take it off. Just leave it on.”

“No. I won’t!”

“Roman …” I frown at him.

He closes his eyes and throws his head back. “Daddy, listen, listen, listen!”