“I will tell him all of that.”
“There’s no rush on getting the dish back to me. But I do need it by the first of September. Bernie’s birthday is in September, and if he lives long enough to have that birthday, I’ll make him one too. People deserve a good cake on what might be their last birthday. Even if I’ve made him a last birthday cake for five years straight now.”
The neighbors here are endlessly entertaining on top of being kind.
I like it.
And liking it here is making looking for a house of my own even harder. If a house went up for sale in this neighborhood, and it was solid and didn’t need too much work, I’d jump on it in a heartbeat.
The issue is that most of the houses around here are in need of renovation, and the paint fumes at work this week have taught me that I cannot consider living like that for the rest of my pregnancy. A day or two here and there for the bathroom renovations in Holt’s house have been fine—small rooms, good ventilation, little smell.
A whole house wouldn’t be the same.
Plus, my parents would insist on paying for it, and I’mstruggling enough with how much help I’m taking from them right now.
I take the cake from Mrs. Massery and head inside after promising her once again to take good care of her crystal dish and to let only Holt eat the cake unless he insists on sharing.
I don’t tell her coconut sounds like it would make me puke right now.
But also, if Holt’s birthday was last week, I should make something extra nice for dinner.
Something next-level. I’d planned chicken Alfredo, but don’t birthdays call for steak?
Except I’m so damn tired, and we don’t have steak. I’d have to go to the store.
I might be whimpering to myself as I push past the front door, balancing the cake and my bag and my own whininess.
Holt’s home.
He’s passed out on the couch, his booted leg propped up and his head tipped back in a pile of throw pillows. He’s wearing black athletic shorts that show off his muscular legs and a Copper Valley University T-shirt that seems to be stretched as far as the fabric will go over his broad chest as it rises and falls. Mouth ajar, he’s snoring the slightest bit.
It’s freaking adorable.
I get three steps in before the floor creaks, and he jolts awake, flinging himself upright with wild, confused eyes scanning the room until they land on me.
The softest smile curves his lips, and his eyes take on a glow.
And for one long heartbeat, I feel appreciated.
Welcome.
Loved.
Get a grip, Ziggy.
He swipes a hand over his face, and when he pulls it away, all I see is a weary man. “Hey. You’re back. What’s with the cake?”
“Mrs. Massery says happy birthday. Hope you like coconut cream.”
The grimace he grimaces says he does not, in fact, like coconut cream. “Yeah,” he lies. “My favorite.”
I’m too tired to do anything but stare blankly at him.
“That shitty parent thing?” he says. “It was my father’s favorite. I don’t?—”
“I’ll take it to work tomorrow. The savages will eat it.”
His shoulders sag. “Thank you. Wait. You work with savages?”
