“Of course. It’s late, so I doubt you tried the cake. I got carrot cake because I had an inkling that it might be something you’d like.”
My smile widens. “Because of the carrots?” I lift an eyebrow.
The humor is back in her laughter. “Yes. No one eats as many vegetables as you. I took a guess that the best type of sweet treat for you would be something with a vegetable in the name.”
“You’re one hell of a guess. Carrot cake happens to be my favorite,” I tell her honestly.
“Really? My gut was right?”
I pull her in for a quick kiss. “Your instincts are better than you think.”
Something passes through Ivy’s eyes before she blinks and it’s gone. Whatever it was, I don’t like it, though. She doesn’t give me time to ask about it before she’s out of my lap.
“Since you’re obviously not going to take my advice to go to sleep anytime soon, how about a slice of cake to celebrate your big win today?”
She makes her way into the kitchen, and I watch her, moving around, knowing where everything is. The satisfaction that I’d lacked earlier settles over me.
“Although you usually don’t eat this late, today’s an exception.”
“I’ve definitely eaten this late,” I tell her, giving her a mischievous stare.
Ivy bursts out laughing, which is what I was aiming for.
She slices a piece of cake and then hands it to me. That won’t do.
A small growl of protest comes out when I pull her back onto my lap instead of letting her cut a second piece. I grab the plate and fork and break off a piece of cake before holding it up to her mouth.
“You should have the first bite. It’s your celebration cake.”
“Open.”
She glares but parts her lips, allowing me to feed her. My eyes remain glued to her lips as I feed her and then slowly pull the fork from her mouth.
“Mm.” She lets out a small moan. “Carrot cake is probably only my sixth or seventh favorite type of cake, but this one is pretty good.”
I chuckle. “You have your cake preferences ranked?”
She gives me a curious look. “Doesn’t everyone?” Then she shakes her head. “Of course, Mr. Greens and Sprouts wouldn’t have a ranking of favorite desserts.”
“Mr. what?”
I put the plate on the table and instantly go for her ribs. Just as I suspected, Ivy is ticklish.
Laughter bubbles up her chest as I tackle her to the couch.
“Take it back,” I demand over her guffaws.
“Absolutely not …” she heaves. “You earned that nickname.”
I increase my tickle attack, which makes her shrieks turn uproarious.
“Damn, I love the sound of your laughter.”
It’s not until Ivy’s laugh softens and her eyes turn more serious that I realize I’ve spoken my thoughts out loud.
“I thought about you today,” I say into the silence.
She sits up, looking at me. “What?”
