The Collared Collection by Kay Jaybee & K. D. Grace

Author:Kay Jaybee & K. D. Grace [Jaybee, Kay & Grace, K. D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B01AIWPHRU
Publisher: Xcite Books
Published: 2016-02-06T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirty-five

With David tagging behind, she did a supermarket shop on the way home; she was planning a romantic dinner for two, with a side dish of blatant schmoozing. The air needed to be cleared, and it was apparent she would have to be the one to do that. Earlier, when she’d rung Alex and Sam, she could sense that they were anxious to stop feeling in the way at Dominic’s and get back to living with their mum as a family, even if psychologists and social workers would condemn the Ashtons as dysfunctional. The boys’ conversation was regularly punctuated with David’s name, and she got the idea they both wanted him to be part of the revamped family unit. Well, they’d get no argument from her, but first, she had broken bridges to mend. They’d been painfully polite to each other, ever since David picked her up from the office – she’d been bursting to tell him about everything discussed during the meeting, but his manner was cool to the point of icy, and not conducive to her prattling on like an excited schoolgirl. Their candlelit dinner was designed to change that.

‘Another glass of wine?’ she called from the kitchen.

‘Shhh! I want to hear this bit – it’s important.’

Uh-huh – she’d just come a poor second to a programme about the run-up to the Grand Prix. Not even the race itself, mind you, but a cobbled-together piece about life in the pits. At that moment, she was an expert on that and didn’t need to watch a TV documentary to pick up any pointers. She sexually assaulted a free-range chicken with stuffing from a packet and slid a slimy paste of crushed garlic, lemon, basil, and olive oil under its skin – a very unpleasant sensation for her; she couldn’t speak for the chicken. Duchesse potatoes had seemed such a good idea earlier, when she was plotting the menu, but her enthusiasm was waning fast – feeling stressed and anxious tends not to be a great asset when one is farting around in a culinary sense.

She slapped a head of broccoli on the chopping board, wondering why she hadn’t settled on chicken and chips, takeaway style. When she wielded one of David’s newly sharpened, mean-looking chopping knives, she managed to cut her finger with it, instead of the veg. Blood – made a lot more fluid by the water she hadn’t bothered to dry from her hands – immediately flowed down her arm and onto the floor. The whole exercise was turning into a farce and sight of the blood prompted unwelcome flashbacks to dead bodies. She had to bite her lip to stop herself grizzling like a miserable child denied sweeties.

In a wobbly voice and expecting to be given short shrift, she called, ‘David, do you have any plasters?’

‘Top right cupboard … why?’

‘Oh nothing, I’ve just nicked my finger – I’ll live.’

He was in there like a shot, grabbing her arm. ‘Cold water!’ He stuck her hand under the running tap, whipped a tea towel from the rail.

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