By the time I finish cleaning up the mess left from the toddler mealtime tornado—sweet potato everywhere—it’s clear that, thanks to her abbreviated nap earlier, Ellie’s exhausted. Sheloves the bath, so I figure an early one will burn up some time before bed and also prep her for—fingers crossed—a good night’s sleep.
I assume Felix will slip away without saying goodbye, but as we reach the hallway, his door opens. He’s wearing dark jeans and a fitted gray T-shirt. His hair is damp from the shower, and he smells like soap and something woodsy and expensive. He also looks like he stepped off the cover of a magazine, and my stupid, hormonal body responds accordingly.
“Have a great time,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral.
“I—” He stops, looking first at me and then Ellie. Her face is buried against my shoulder like she’s about as pleased as I am. When he looks back at me, his gaze is dark and slightly wild. “Do you have a problem with this, Hart?”
“Not in the slightest. One of us needs to get out of the house.” I shift Ellie on my hip, using her as a buffer between us. “I’m happy right where I am.”
I move past him toward the bathroom, but his voice stops me.
“Piper—”
“Seriously, Felix. It’s fine. Ellie’s fussy, so I’m going to give her a bath and try to put her down early. You don’t need to stick around for that.”
I don’t look back at him. If I do, I might do something stupid. Like ask him to stay.
Instead, I close the bathroom door between us and start running water for Ellie’s bath.
An hour, three rounds ofGoodnight Moon,and two lullabies later, Ellie is clean, pajama’d and finally passed out in her crib.
I’m already plotting my own early night when I smell fresh-baked bread.
Totally ignoring the fact that Felix is gone—so this could be the start of a doughy horror movie—I make my way downstairs, following the scent like a cartoon character floating toward a pie on a windowsill. Once again, instead of a villain, I find Felix inthe kitchen. He’s changed out of the jeans and back into athletic shorts and a looser fitting shirt.
I command my booing ovaries to hush and watch in rapt fascination—or maybe that’s hunger—as he pulls a golden loaf from the oven.
“I thought you were going out,” I say.
He sets the bread on a cooling rack, not quite meeting my eyes. “Changed my mind.”
The kitchen island is set for two, with plates and silverware and what looks like two of Mindy’s prepared meals ready to go on the counter.
“You made dinner.”
“Iheateddinner,” he corrects with a smile that looks almost shy and totally out of character for larger-than-life Felix Barlowe. “But the bread is mine.” He moves to the sink to fill two glasses with water. “Figured we both need to eat.”
“Felix—”
“Sit down.” He points to a chair at the island. “It’s dinner, not a marriage proposal.”
As if I needed that reminder. But the idea of being married to…well, not specifically Felix but a man like him—one who carries me down a trail when I stumble and then feeds me—makes me feel a little dizzy, and I sink into the chair before my knees give out.
It’s the exact opposite of the relationship I had with my ass-hat ex-fiancé. A twatwaffle who seemed to believe that because I was younger and not a doctor, I owed him just for picking me. Turns out, that kind of selfish love does not do great things to a person’s self-esteem. And even though I’ve seen my sister and book club friends taken care of by the men who love them, I convinced myself I’m better on my own. Safer.
Felix is dangerous on a lot of levels.
He plates the food—some kind of chicken dish with roasted vegetables that I’m definitely not eating—then cuts thick slices of the still-warm bread. I take a bite of the breadfirst and swallow back a moan. After making a fool of myself over his focaccia, I’m committed to keeping it together, but it’s tough with so much deliciousness exploding on my tongue.
“I seriously hate you,” I say around a mouthful, “for ruining store-bought bread for me forever.”
He shrugs like this is also no biggie as he slides into the chair next to me, but I catch the pleased expression that flashes across his face. “It’s just bread.”
“It’s notjustbread. It’s carb art.”
He grins. “No one has ever called me an artist. Well, other than analysts talking about my signature creative style in running routes.”
“Bake them some sourdough.” I pop another morsel into my mouth with a sigh. “You’re more than football, Felix.”
