It’s probably too much, but what’s a little more?
“You’re not helping.”
“I amabsolutelyhelping,” she says. “I’m just saying, roast chicken is how you lock a man down. That and an outfit that says, ‘I bake and I swallow.’”
“Jesus, Demi!”
“What? I’m giving you the tools to get what you want.”
“You’re giving me heart palpitations.”
“Oh, sorry,” she says, mock-serious. “Would it help if I told you that it won’t matter if you burn the chicken or give him salmonella, because he’s already so obsessed with you he’d die with a boner and a smile?”
“DEMI.”
“SABLE. I’m telling the truth. That man would eat ketchup on drywall if you served it with that little ‘I tried’ look on your face.”
I groan and bury my smile in my arm for a second before muttering, “I’mtryingto create a warm, welcoming environment. Not a fucking last supper.”
Hex has FaceTimed me every night this week. He calls at closing hour, keeping me on the phone while I lock-up, just to be sure I make it out and home safe. Always with that low voice and sincere presence, checking in without pushing.
Tonight’s different though. He’s not on a screen. He’s coming over.
To meet my son.
I told Bash about him last night. About the man who I’ve been spending time with more than just a little. The one who put in the playscape in the backyard. The one who is pretty serious.
The moment I said playscape, Bash’s whole face lit up. He didn’t say much though about Hex—he’s cautious with new people, especially when it comes to his mom—but I caught the excitement in his face. Hiding under that stubborn little smirk of his.
“Demi,” I say, pressing the phone between my shoulder and cheek as I grab the pan for the carrots. “If this chicken turns out terrible, I swear to God, I’m setting the oven on fire and blaming you.”
“You’d be doing the world a favor,” she snorts. “That oven’s unstable.”
“No, Ashley’s unstable,” I groan, then immediately regret the words.
There’s a pause on the other side.
“Got the email, huh?” She knows I’ve been worried since the moment I filed the temporary order last Friday.
“Yeah.”
“I’ll bring wine to court,” she says. “And maybe a stun gun. You know, just in case.”
“I can’t tell if you’re joking,” I say, using the back of my forearm to swipe at my temple.
“I can’t either.”
I smile despite myself, then glance at the oven clock. “I’ve gotta go. The chicken’s probably dry. I forgot the salad. And I’m sweating through my bra.”
“That’s called pheromones. Men love that shit. Makes them feral.”
“Goodbye, Demi.”
“Godspeed, Chicken Queen. Don’t forget to baste the birdandyour man.”
Outside the kitchen window, the playscape catches the evening light. It’s sturdy and simple, but it looks safe. Something that could last. It makes me smile.
I hang up with Demi just as the oven beeps and my phone buzzes again.
