door, with me in his arms, and kicked it shut behind us. He plopped me down on the couch in the living room and squatted down to work on my heels.
“Do you miss cooking at work?” He slipped off the first and began working on the second. I swayed side to side as I watched. My fiancé always took such good care of me.
“Yeah, I like doing it myself. I like when people like my food. Not just food I told them to make, Casey. The food I made. Myself.”
He sat completely down on the rug and then I thought I was going to die. He held my left foot—or was it my right foot—in his hands and worked them over. His thumbs pressing into the achy soles of my feet.
“Shit. That feels good.”
I heard him laugh at me, but I didn’t care. I lay back into the soft couch and relished the feeling of his fingers as they masterfully squeezed and kneaded me in the most delicious way.
“Well, can you do more of that at work?”
“No. They don’t need me for that. They have chefs for that. I’m thirsty.”
“You know what? That’s not a bad idea. You need some Gatorade. Can you make it to the bedroom? I’ll get drinks and some stuff for the headache you’ll most definitely have in the morning.”
My feet felt better and the spinning had come to a stop since we weren’t in the car anymore. “Yeah, I’m cool. I’m gonna go to bed.”
As I walked down the hall to our room, I kicked off my skirt and flung it into the hamper … and made a basket. From like a hundred feet away.
Why isn’t anyone ever around when I do that?
I took my shirt off and stood in the same spot. Going for two.
I shot.
I missed.
“So close,” he said from behind me.
“No, you didn’t see it. I just made it.”
He gently swatted my ass as he passed me. “You made it on the floor, Betty Ford.”
“Uh,” I protested and followed him. Nobody would ever know how good I was.
“Want a T-shirt?” he asked, placing a bunch of goodies on my nightstand. Two cheese sticks—because he knew better than to just bring one, that little episode was almost our first domestic fight—a stem of grapes, a pack of cheese and peanut butter crackers, and the promised Gatorade.
“Yes, please.” I climbed into bed. I’d wait for him to get back before I dug in. I laid my head on my pillow and watched as he went into the bathroom, kicked off his shoes, and took his jeans off.
My eyes got heavy and I tried to keep them open, but I failed.
I awoke to the sound of Casey talking, but it wasn’t to me. When my ears started processing English, I caught him saying, “She’s still asleep. I’m not waking her up. I’d like to actually live to see my wedding day, Morgan.” That made me smile. It was then I realized smiling kind of hurt. I rolled over and climbed to the end of the bed to hear more clearly. It wasn’t eavesdropping though. I lived there. If he didn’t want me to hear something, he’d have to figure something else out.
“I think she’ll be fine. She didn’t throw up or anything.” Then he paused and laughed. “I know. I didn’t realize they were that competitive either. I agree, Reggie got the better-at-beer-games genes.”
That offended me. Well, kind of.
“Hey, I can hear you,” I called. “And I was just having an off night.”
I heard his bare feet slap across the floor down the hall. “Well, you better pray you don’t have one tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because I was just informed, by a bossy brat, that tonight is your bachelorette party.”
I slung an arm over my face. The thought of drinking didn’t appeal to me and it made my tummy grumble. Or maybe I was just hungry.
He sat next to me on the bed and rubbed my boob. I mouthed You’re on the phone with your sister. Stop. That’s gross.
He mouthed I’ll show you gross.
I giggled into the mattress. He was so warped. I worried about his mental health sometimes.
I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but she was letting him have it. She was always letting him have it. I was really beginning to love her for that. She didn’t take his shit and he took all of hers.
“I said I would, okay? Now what time?” he asked, annoyed and ready to get off the phone. His hand