“Oh,” I say, “you can just leave that at the table. Whoever’s on clean up duty today will take care of it.”
“I can’t take my dish to the sink?” His dark brows arch. His shower-fresh scent invades the close space between us. “My legs aren’t broken.”
“Yeah, but,” I start to say, “in this house, the men don’t work in the kitchen.”
I realize how dated I sound to someone from the outside, and maybe it seems ridiculous, but it’s always how it’s been in our house. It just works. Besides, it’s very important that we all walk a straight line here. Every day is a struggle to balance the equilibrium.
He ignores my warning and reaches behind me, his arm grazing mine as he sets his plate in the sink.
Just like that he defies me, our house, and our family rules. Like it’s nothing. Like he’s above us. All I want is to leave for college in the fall, and that won’t happen if I step out of line or upset the peace. Jensen’s going to make things difficult for me. I can feel it already. I’ve known him thirty minutes and he’s already testing my patience.
“Next time, please leave your dish at the table. Someone will take care of it for you.” I lift my head high. I’m not sure who he thinks he is. “We thank you for your cooperation.”
He snickers. “What is this, some kind of restaurant? Do you even hear yourself?”
“Rules are rules.” It’s the best comeback I can muster given the fact that the way he looks at me turns my brains into mush. “We have a system. It works.”
“Are we really making this a thing right now?”
“It’s only a thing because you’re making it a thing.”
Jensen reaches around me again, taking his plate and walking it over to the table, returning it to his place setting. When he returns, he bows down, rolling his wrist as if I’m royalty.
“That was rude,” I mutter under my breath, my eyes darting into the dining room to make sure my father didn’t hear me. I’m supposed to be sweet and kind, void of opinions and allergic to conflict. I’m not that way, so I have to pretend.
He leans forward, bringing his lips to my ear. “I can already tell I’m going to have a lot of fun with you.”
I release the breath I didn’t know I was holding. My cheeks burn red, caused a confusing blend of unfamiliar sensations. I push past him, my hands tightening around the straps of my bag, and rush out the door.
I have no idea what just happened in there. All I know is I met Jensen Mackey today, and my world tilted on its axis.
CHAPTER 3
JENSEN
“Waverly, would you mind passing me some of those gender rolls, please?” There’s a smirk on my face as I reach across the table at dinner Monday night. I’ve just been given an all-access, VIP backstage pass to the greatest fucking circus on earth. All these wives and kids and systems and checklists, and nobody wears a goddamned smile or shows a hint of rebellion. They go about their daily routines like micromanaged employees.
Waverly places a white bowl of warm, buttered rolls into my hand and pinches her face. I take a one and bite into it, chewing slowly like a kid in a crescent roll commercial.
“Mm, mm. These gender rolls are delicious.”
She kicks me under the table, hard, but I don’t flinch. I’m not sure how I ended up sitting across from her at the table again, but here I am. Mark is at the head of the table yammering on about some boring pharmaceutical legislation. Waverly flashes me a look as if to warn me not to mock him, but I won’t be ordered around by some angel-faced goody-two-shoes who lives and breathes to make Daddy happy.
“Gender rolls are the best kind of rolls,” I continue. “You should make these for me again sometime, you know, since I’m not allowed in the kitchen.”
“Stop,” she whispers, throwing me a sharp look. Her eyes are the lightest shade of baby blue, clear almost. They’re hardly threatening. Everything about her is prim and proper and mind-numbingly perfect. We are night and day, she and I, and I get the feeling we’re going to butt heads a lot.
But it could be fun.
“So, Jensen,” Mark calls from the head of the table. Summer and Kath rise from the table and start cleaning up as the little kids scatter. “Why don’t you head down here so we can have a little chat?”
I peel myself up from the chair, making a point to slide my dishes into Waverly’s place setting, and take the seat beside Mark. I sit up straight and look him in the eye, the way I used to when my father would give me one of his lectures. As long as I appeared to be listening I’d get off without being called a “worthless piece of shit.”
“You any good with fixing things?” Mark asks.
“What kinds of things, sir?” I throw a ‘sir’ in there for good measure. It always worked on my father.
“Cars, trucks, motorcycles,” Mark says. “Grease monkey type things.”
I repaired an old Toyota Celica back home. My father wouldn’t buy me a car when I turned sixteen, so I found one in the paper for $500 that didn’t run. A few minor parts and it got me where I needed to go.
“I am.”
“One of my friends is looking for a gofer for his shop. You probably want some walking-around money,” Mark says. He’s pretending to be cool, pretending to bring himself to my level as he tries to figure me out. I’m one step ahead of him though, and his attempt is laughable at best.
“Gofer?”
“Yeah, you’d go-for stuff. Parts. Errands. Maybe work yourself up to minor repairs.” Mark clears his throat and squares his shoulders with mine. It’s a manipulative technique he’s using—mirroring his body language with mine in an attempt to make me more comfortable around him. My father used it on people at church all the time and they’d walk away thinking Josiah Mackey was their best friend in the whole wide world. I swear to God, if Mark Miller is as cunning and manipulative as my father, I’ll…
“You done with this, Dad?” It’s Waverly. She reaches for Mark’s plate, happy to serve him, like he’s the fucking King of England.
“Sure am, sweetie,” he says with a warm, Leave It to Beaver smile that makes me my stomach churn. This can’t be real life.
“She sure is a great help in the kitchen,” I say, catching myself before make some snide remark about the convenience of breeding built-in help. I get it. Teaching kids to have chores and responsibilities is part of parenting. Using them to wait on you hand and foot because they weren’t born with the almighty cock and balls is disgusting. That’s some Josiah Mackey-level thinking right there.
“She’s going to make a fine wife someday,” Mark says in a way that creeps me the fuck out. Is that what he was raising his daughter to be—a good wife for some polygamous asshole? “Anyway, as I was saying. The job at the shop. You interested?”
Whatever gets me out of this warped little universe for a while is cool with me. “Yeah, I’ll take it.”
Mark proceeds to gloss over the house rules. I hear him use words like “curfew” and “quiet time” and “expectations.” I get it. He’s a control freak and he wants me to know he’s the man of the house. I listen just enough to get the gist, but every time Mark looks away, I find myself glancing in the kitchen toward Waverly. She’s towel-drying dishes and smiling as she chats with her sister. Our eyes meet, but she looks away instantly.
She probably doesn’t know what the fuck to make of me, and that’s exactly the way I prefer it.
“Oh, and I discussed this with Kath earlier today,” Mark says. “Since her house is the smallest of the three, and I doubt you want to share a room with a six-year-old, we’re going to move you into the main house. There’s an extra room next to Waverly’s. I think it’ll be a better fit for you. Give you a little privacy.”
I’m grateful for the privacy, but I know what’s going on here. He wants his little princess to keep an eye on me when he’s not around. That little snitch would rat me out in a heartbeat, too. Not that I plan on faltering from my straight line while I’m here, but I’ve already lived life under Josiah Mackey’s microscope. I was hoping for a break from the constant scrutiny, but I guess it was too much to expect the universe to throw me a fucking bone once in a while.