“You’re too good to all of us.” She pecks my cheek. “I smell food.”
“Twice-baked potatoes, bean salad, and fake wine.”
Plus candles.
Two place settings at the kitchen table with Caden’s fancy dishes.
Soft jazz.
Her lips part. “Fake wine?”
“It’s a substitute. I found a thing with tea and juice and bitters online. It probably sucks, but?—”
She cuts me off with another kiss. “You are the absolute best,” she whispers against my lips as she strokes my cheeks.
“Tell me about your doctor appointment,” I say.
“You first.”
“I ditched the crutches. Two more weeks in the boot. Then the hard PT starts, and I can’t fucking wait. Your turn.”
“I have a dozen pictures of the baby.”
Andthathas been the worst part of my day.
Waiting for her to get home to see the images of Tater Tot.
A bunch of guys on the team have already seen the baby, but I barely got a glance.
Didn’t want to see.
Not if I couldn’t see it with Ziggy.
While I’m touching her. Smelling her. Listening to her describe every photo in detail.
The oven buzzer goes off, and I reluctantly let her go so I can pull out the potatoes.
No idea if my lumpy offering will meet her standards, but she’s the type who’ll give me credit for trying.
And if they’re awful, I have a food delivery app on my phone.
Anything she wants, it’s hers.
“Those look amazing,” she says.
“Go sit. My turn to serve you.”
The table’s against the window overlooking the side yard and the neighbor’s house, angled just right for one of us to keep an eye on Jessica.
Table’s also small.
Just the right size for two.
We can fit a high chair though.
And the fact that I’m thinking about high chairs tells you how far I’m gone.
This isn’t Ziggy’s baby.
