Chapter 11
Maven
The sound of drawers opening and closing pulled me from my sleep. Finn was curled up at the bottom of the couch with an eye cracked open. I wasn’t sure when he’d joined me in the night, but he clearly didn’t appreciate the noise Ben was making this early either.
I sat up, staying wrapped in the blanket to fight off the chill in the air. “Morning,” I said before clearing the sleep from my voice. “Do you need help finding something?”
Ben’s gaze settled on me. His headshake wasn’t in response to my question. He was giving me the you-are-such-a-pain-in-my-butt variety. “Currently, my cast-iron skillet.”
“Hmm.” I tapped my lips with a finger. “Did you try the drawer beneath the oven?”
Ben huffed and opened the drawer. “Nope. But there’s my silverware.”
“That’s right.” I stood up, appraising the space. “Maybe try the large drawer below the sink.”
“I didn’t realize you had such a knack for reorganizing,” Ben said, walking to the sink.
“It’s a newfound talent.”
“How new? As of last night?”
I just smiled.
He opened the drawer and stilled. His unimpressed gaze lifted to mine, then he raised a pair of his work boots. “Really?”
I barely restrained the laugh that bubbled up my throat before reluctantly dropping the blanket on the couch and heading through the kitchen to the stairs. “I’ll be in the bathroom, but good luck finding that skillet.”
Ben stepped in front of me, blocking my path. “You know exactly where it is, don’t you?”
I didn’t step away but met his gaze, ignoring the way my whole body tensed at his proximity. “Possibly.”
“But you’re not going to tell me?”
I pursed my lips. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Ben raked a hand through his hair, and I did my best not to let my gaze linger. He considered me for a solid five seconds, then shrugged. “That’s fine. I’ll grab breakfast out.”
“That’s the spirit.” I stepped around him, then paused. “Oh, are you going to be in the workshop today?”
The look he threw me was full of suspicion. “Why?”
“Relax. I was only going to ask if I could take your truck for a couple of hours. I have some errands to run.”
“Honestly, I’m not sure which I’d prefer less, entrusting you with my truck or letting you stay here to reorganize my kitchen and mismatch all my socks.”
“Aww, you noticed the socks.” I put a hand on my chest, like his mention of it touched me. “Which reminds me, you should probably spice up your sock collection a little. You know what they say about men who own the same socks in only three colors?”
“That they know what they like?”
“Sure.” I hadn’t the slightest idea where I was going with that comment. “So, can I have the truck?”
“You can’t just walk across the street to do your errands?”
“They don’t sell everything I need on Main Street.”
“What do you need?”
I smirked. “Are you sure you want to ask me that?”
Ben considered me again. Having grown up with three rough-and-tumble brothers and a mom who didn’t wave the woman-menstruating card, a female’s monthly cycles had never been a comfortable point of conversation for him.
Sure, in the past, when I was on my period, he’d acknowledge the biological facts and symptoms and try to support how he could, but he seemed to always bumble his way through it somewhat awkwardly.
Not that I couldn’t get feminine products at the market.
I just didn’t want to explain what I actually needed it for and ruin Ben’s surprise.
“I’ll need the truck by one,” he said.
“Deal. And, as a thank you, and not at all because we’re being forced to share a meal together”—I smiled for effect—“don’t make plans for dinner. I’m cooking tonight.”
“You’re cooking dinner?”
I dropped my chin, pinning him with a look. Despite what he apparently thought, ramen and scrambled eggs were no longer my only specialties. Not that I planned to showcase my moderately increased abilities tonight. Quite the opposite, actually.
“What time do you want me home?” he asked.
The simple question, in combination with his teasing smile, unexpectedly sent me spiraling. How many times had Ben asked me that during our first year of marriage? Dozens? More? It threw me back to a period of life I didn’t want to think about.
I drew a step back.
Ben’s brows lowered almost indiscernibly.
Before he could ask anything, I turned toward the stairs and started up them. “Sorry, I’ve really got to pee. Just text me what time works best for you, and I’ll have it ready.”
I shut the bathroom door behind me and didn’t leave until I heard the trailer door open, then shut. It was fine. I was fine. I just needed to double down on my attempts to drive Ben crazy and pray he would change his mind about the location of the divorce. Soon!
Climbing into Ben’s truck, I scooted the seat as far forward as it would go before adjusting all the mirrors inward and downward.
Safety first. Speaking of, the steering wheel was way too high, so I lowered it until it sat just above my thighs.
The thought of Ben trying to squeeze himself into the cocooned space later made me smile.
After I turned the key in the ignition, I clicked the radio on and pressed the first of five buttons, ready to reset Ben’s programmed stations, but the music of Brahms’ Symphony No.
1 paused me. That was odd. I pressed the second button, and an orchestra performing Vivaldi echoed through the speakers.
Ben didn’t listen to classical music. Had he really not reprogrammed the stations over all these years?
I guess that tracked. But it made my sabotaging far less effective.
Oh, well. The third button was country, so I turned the knob until I found an R&B station to replace it before setting the fourth to The Kiss FM’s Classic Love Songs.
For the fifth, a talk radio show taking callers asking for relationship advice seemed the obvious choice on the off chance Ben ever noticed.
Ben tapping at my window made me jump, causing me to ram my thighs against the bottom of the steering wheel. I groaned, rubbing my legs with one hand while cranking the window down with the other. “Yeah?”
He looked at the radio, then back at me. “Were you reprogramming my stations?”
“Your stations? You use the buttons?”
“That is the point of them.”
I quirked my head. “The first two stations were set to classical.”
“Huh.” Moving along without an actual response, he pulled out his wallet. “The truck is low on gas. It shouldn’t need to be refilled before you get back, but just in case, take this.” He held out his credit card. “You can put in a couple of gallons, and I’ll fill the rest of the tank later.”
Was he serious right now? He was giving me his credit card? “Sure,” I said, eagerly accepting his offer.
When I tugged at the card, his hand moved with it, like he suddenly realized the potential problem with the situation. “Can I trust you with this?”
I grinned. “You probably shouldn’t.”
Both our hands remained fixed on the small, rectangular piece of plastic. The warmth of his skin reached mine, nearly causing me to release it, but he let go first. I slid the credit card into the back pocket of my jeans before he could change his mind.
He took a backward step, pulling in a quick breath. “Don’t go too crazy.”
“How crazy is too crazy? Like on a spectrum of a few household necessities and groceries for dinner to, say… a new car.”
“Maybe stick toward the household necessity and grocery side.”
Well, that was permission if I ever heard it. Plus, Ben and I were married. What sort of wife would I be if I didn’t see to some of my husband’s basic needs? Things like novelty socks to spice up his lame collection and a few decorations to level up his place.
“See you at one!” I said, cranking the window back up. With Ben’s card burning a hole in my back pocket and all sorts of ideas as to what I might buy to further my cause, I threw the truck in gear and eased it forward.