I want her in my bed, on my couch, in my lap—anywhere she’ll let me have her.
Liam finally shuffles out the front door with a lazy wave. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
I grin. “That narrows it down to… absolutely nothing.”
He disappears down the walkway, and I shut the door behind him with a quiet sense of triumph.
Then I lock it.
Deadbolt. Chain. Extra latch.
Because I amdoneplaying host.
This weekend is abouther. Aboutus.
If someone knocks, I’m not answering. Not even if it’s Beyoncé with cupcakes. Not even if it’s the Pope himself holding a VIP pass to the afterlife.
Unless it’s Olive.
Because the next time that front door opens, it better be her walking through it.
Preferably wearing nothing but a smile.
And maybe that soft little robe she sometimes wears in the morning. The one that slides off her shoulder like a goddamn invitation.
I glance at the clock and groan—still hours to go.
Might as well put the time to good use. I start on dinner: homemade garlic bread and fresh pappardelle in a vodka cream sauce.
To me, cooking is like songwriting—only with garlic and butter instead of lyrics and chords. And tonight, I want everything to be perfect.
When the bread is baking and filling the house with the rich scent of garlic and herbs, and the pasta simmers on the stove, I set the table in the sunroom. Evening light spills in like honey. Two plates. Cloth napkins. Candles.
I pause for a second and check the time again. She should be home any minute.
The sound of keys in the door nearly makes me drop the corkscrew.
I toss the last of the salad, wipe my hands on a towel, and try to act casual.
Olive walks in, hair a little windblown. Bag slipping off her shoulder. Wearing one of those soft cardigans that makes her look like every fantasy I’ve ever had of home and heat and something real.
She pauses in the entryway, nose scrunching. “What smells so good?”
I step into view, leaning against the doorframe like I didn’t rehearse this exact moment twice in my head. “Dinner. I hope you’re hungry? I wanted to surprise you.”
She smiles, soft and delighted, as her gaze follows the flicker of candlelight toward the dining nook. “Ash…” Her voice dips, warm and a little breathless. “You did all this?”
I shrug like it’s nothing, though I’m burning under her eyes. “Just thought you deserved a night where you didn’t have to take care of anyone.”
She drops her bag, walks forward slowly, gaze drinking in the scene. “Okay,” she says, lowering herself into the chair I pulled out for her. “This is seriously the nicest thing anyone’s done for me in forever. I might cry. And not the good kind of cry. The messy, ‘I need a nap and a therapist’ kind.”
I chuckle, setting her wine glass down. “Let’s aim for neither. Food first. Breakdown later.”
She lifts the glass with both hands like it’s holy. “You are an angel. A foul-mouthed, inked-up domestic angel.”
“I prefer ‘kitchen god,’ but I’ll allow it.”
She gives a tired smile that tugs at something deep in my chest. And then we eat.
