I don’t elaborate. Don’t tell her that their mother sends a card twice a year —birthdays and Christmas— with a generic message and no return address. Don’t tell her that Ava sometimes asks when Mommy’s coming home, and I have to explain, again, that some people have things to do that take them away from us.
Don’t tell Chloe that I’m terrified of making the same mistake twice— of letting someone into our lives, letting the twins get attached, only to have them leave when things get hard.
That’s the big one.
Chloe nods, and I’m grateful she doesn’t push. “Well,” she says, her voice deliberately lighter, “I’m here now. And I’m pretty good with early mornings, so if you ever need an extra set of hands...”
“You want to learn how to bake?” The question comes out before I can stop it, and I’m immediately annoyed with myself. She’s here to watch my kids, not apprentice in my kitchen.
But her face lights up. “Are you serious? I would love that. I mean, I can make boxed brownies and not much else, but I’ve always wanted to learn. My grandma used to bake —nothing fancy, just cookies and pies— and I remember how it made the whole house smell like...” She trails off, a faint blush creeping up her cheeks. “Sorry. I’m rambling.”
“You’re not rambling,” I say, and I mean it. I like listening to her talk. Like the way her hands move when she’s excited, the way she leans forward like she can’t contain all that energy. “And yeah, I’m serious. If you want to learn, I’ll teach you.”
Her smile could power the whole bakery. “You’re serious, right?”
“Yes, I’m serious.” I pull out two cinnamon rolls, plate them, and slide one across the counter to her. “But first, you have to pass the taste test. Can’t have my nanny working at the bakery if she doesn’t appreciate good pastry.”
Chloe picks up the still-warm roll, and I watch —because apparently I can’t help myself— as she takes a bite. Her eyes close. A small sound escapes her throat, something between a hum and a sigh, and every rational thought in my head evaporates.
“Oh my God,” she says, opening her eyes. “Jonah, this is… I don’t even have words. This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
Pride swells in my chest, warm and unexpected. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She takes another bite, and there’s a tiny bit of frosting on her bottom lip. I force myself to look away before I dosomething stupid like offer to wipe it off. “If this is what you’re capable of, I can’t believe you’re not famous.”
“I don’t want to be famous,” I say quietly. “I just want to make good baked goods. Provide for my daughters. Keep things simple.”
“Simple,” she repeats, like she’s testing the word. “Is that what you want? Or is that what feels safe?”
The question catches me off guard. I look at her. Really look at her. And I see someone who understands more than she should. Someone who’s maybe asking herself the same thing.
“Maybe both,” I admit.
She nods slowly, licking frosting off her thumb in a way that should not affect me the way it does. “I get that.”
The timer on the oven beeps, breaking the moment. I move to pull out a couple quick breads, grateful for the distraction, but I’m hyperaware of her presence in my kitchen. The way she leans against the counter, watching me work with genuine interest. The way she asks questions —good questions, about baking times and high-quality ingredients.
Like she actually cares.
“So,” she says after a while, “what time do the girls wake up?” She taps her fingernails on the marble.
“Usually around seven. They’re early risers. They’ll want breakfast. nothing fancy, usually just cereal or toast, and then if it’s a preschool day, they need to be ready by eight-thirty.”
“And on non-preschool days?”
“That’s where you come in.” I glance up at her. “They’re good kids, but they’re four. They need activities. Structure. Someone who can keep them from destroying the house while I’m working.”
Chloe grins. “Like the flour incident?”
“Exactly like the flour incident.” I can’t help but smile back. “Though for the record, that was an outlier. Usually they only cause…moderate… destruction.”
“Moderate destruction? Hmmm.” She might have a twinge of fear, but she shakes it off. “Got it. I’ll do my very best.” She hops up to sit on the counter —something Sarah never would have done, something that should probably bother me but doesn’t— and swings her legs. “What else should I know? Allergies? Favorite foods? Things that trigger meltdowns?”
I run through the list: Mia’s lactose intolerance, Ava’s fear of thunderstorms, their mutual obsession with a cartoon calledPuppy Piratesthat I don’t understand but have seen every episode of at least twelve times. Chloe listens, asks follow-up questions, makes mental notes with the kind of focus that tells me she’s taking this seriously.
She’s good at this. At making me feel heard. At making me feel like maybe I’m not completely failing at this whole single-dad thing.
“They’re going to love you,” I say without thinking.
