Delaney leans in conspiratorially. “No sugar avalanches.”
Sadie nods solemnly. “I will avoid avalanches.”
Delaney hands her the cup, covering Sadie’s hand with her own. “Slow pour. Like a snowflake drifting down.”
Sadie mimics her voice perfectly. “A snowflaaaake.”
Delaney laughs again, her hand guiding Sadie’s with a tenderness that damn near knocks me flat.
She’s good with her.
So good it hurts.
So good it scares me.
And underneath the part that scares me?
My pulse is too fast.
My palms are trembling.
And there’s a heavy heat low in my belly I haven’t felt in years, not from something as simple as her laugh.
This is wrong.
Dangerous.
Forbidden.
And absolutely impossible to ignore.
I need to speak, to distract myself from all of this somehow.
Say anything.
“This is new,” I manage.
They glance over, and seeing Delaney’s eyes land on me is stepping into heat.
“Daddy!” Sadie squeals. “We’re making blueberry muffins!”
There’s a second bowl on the counter too, darker batter covered with a plastic wrap, tucked off to the side. Brownies, if I had to guess. Breakfast now, chocolate later. Sadie hasn’t stopped talking about baking with Delaney since last night.
“So I see.”
Delaney wipes at her cheek, smears flour higher, and offers me a small smile that damn near knocks my ribs loose.
“She asked what chefs make for breakfast,” she giggles. “I didn’t realize it was a test.”
Her smile deepens, and my stomach tightens.
“You passed,” I say gruffly. “She hasn’t wanted to cook with anyone in a while.”
Sadie’s face flickers, the joy dipping.
Delaney notices it instantly, as if she’s known my kid longer than three days.
“Sadie,” she murmurs, nudging her. “Show your dad your egg-cracking technique.”
