“I didn’t lie,” Harrison protests. “I said it was good. I never said it wasn’t…crunchy.”
I groan. “Please stop eating it.”
Another loud, explosiveCRACKechoes through the dining room as he takes another bite. Then he wags his brows and hums, “Mmm.”
Connor giggles so hard he nearly falls out of his chair. “This is the funniest dinner ever!”
Conversation flows surprisingly easily.
Connor tells Harrison all about school.
Harrison listens like it’s the most important information he’s ever heard. I keep staring at them, my chest feeling too full, too tight. And somewhere between bites of pasta and the world’s worst bread, new territory begins to open up between us.
Not romantic.
But soft and real and delicate enough that one breath too hard might shatter it. When dinner winds down, Connor claps his hands.
“Best spaghetti night ever!”
“Oh yeah?” Harrison asks, amused.
“Yep! Even with the bread.”
I hide my face again. “Please stop talking about the bread.”
“Never,” Connor declares dramatically.
Harrison laughs, the sound warm and deep and horribly, beautifully familiar. When our eyes meet over the table, the smiling fades, not in a bad way, but in the kind of way that means everything underneath is shifting and something flickers between us.
Something like ten years of buried electricity sparks back to life.
Then Connor stands up to clear the plates, humming as he goes, and the moment breaks just enough for me to breathe again.
Harrison sets down his last piece of charcoal masquerading as garlic bread.
“You really didn’t have to do all that,” I murmur once Connor’s focused on the dishes.. “Seriously, Harrison. The bread was awful and you ate like, four pieces.”
He leans closer, voice low, warm. “It’s not about the bread.”
My stomach swoops. “It’s not?”
“I ate the bread,” he adds softly, “because Connor thinks you’re Supermom…and I’m not about to be the guy who ruins that.”
Oh.
Well…
Okay.
So now my heart is melting like butter on…God, I wish I could say garlic bread, but that ship has sailed and burned.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He gives me a small smile, the kind that sneaks under my ribs. “Anytime.”
We try to return to normalcy, or whatever version of normalcy exists when the father of your child is at your dinner table for the first time in a decade.
“It really wasn’t that bad,” he says quietly.
