“Pantakes!” Bash yells, taking off for the kitchen with all the speed he has in his adorable chunky toddler legs. “I get fower! I get pan!”
“And I’ll get you happier,” I tell Yolko Ono.
And then vacuum. And give her a bath. And change her diaper. And clean up from that too.
Jonas pauses on his way into the kitchen. “You took my picture.”
“You were cuddling my chicken.”
“That the first?”
I sincerely hope my cheeks were already red from all of the laughing. They aredefinitelyhot now.
Caught.
I nod, telling myself I have nothing to be embarrassed about.
He grins back at me. “You want more, I can pose later. Pretty good at it. Natural talent.”
And just like that, I’m laughing again. “Go make pancakes before I throw this chicken at you again.”
He’s smiling as he strides into the kitchen.
I watch his ass.
No apologies.
Not when I think last night means we’re dating.
And if we’re not yet—I want to.
I want to date Jonas Rutherford. I want to date the father of my child. I want to date my friend.
And I sincerely hope I’m not making a mistake.
It’s not just my life—my comfort, my safety, and my heart—on the line anymore.
It’s Bash’s too.
It’s Bash’sfirst.
And that’s what makes dating so much more terrifying than it should be.
33
Jonas
Bash is a prettyterrible pancake batter mixer.
And I love it.
He’s stripped down to his diaper and has flour all over his chest and his solid toddler belly. Milk and egg on his arm. A clump of all of it in his hair.
The bowl slides across the countertop while he stands on a chair and stirs, the spoon having more control over him than he has over the spoon.
“You need any help?” I ask him.
“I do it.”
