Chapter 20
Lying back in the lukewarm bathwater, I sip my drink, listening and smiling at life’s simple joys.
I hear plates clink. The refrigerator opens and shuts. Utensils rustle.
My eyes slowly close to the steady rhythm of sounds.
Home sweet home.
Then the sounds of Edith Pilaf wafting into the room from the bedroom’s stereo speakers cause me to stir.
I am suddenly being poked in the arm by a wandering finger. I open my eyes to Philip standing nearby, balancing a plate with a teriyaki chicken sandwich I left for him in the fridge; he grips a canter of whiskey in the other hand. His smile is disarmingly boyish, masculine, and devilishly handsome. Silver Fox—my nickname for him.
I pull myself up in the mountain of bubbles.
“Looks like someone is having a private party,” he says, smirking.
Darth glances up at him with a busy, eager stare, his bushy tail wagging and thumping the floor, as if asking, Where’s my dinner?
“Welcome home, sweet man,” I say, gathering myself.