“I’m sorry.” I’m sure cookie baking isn’t what she had planned for her evening, and it’s probably almost Liam’s bedtime. “I should go. I just wanted to make sure Claire was doing well, and clearly she’s fine.”
“You sure? Have you had dinner?”
“No, but?—”
“There’s leftover spaghetti if you’d like some,” she offers. “You can eat while we make your cookies.”
I shouldn’t say yes. By dropping in for an evening house call, I’ve already pushed the limits of professional boundaries. Hell, in those pink sweatpants, Melissa’s awalking boundary violation. It’s not even two weeks since I operated on Claire, and if the suits at the Medical Board knew what was running through my head right now, I’d probably lose my medical license.
“Spaghetti sounds great,” I hear myself reply.
I follow Melissa down the hall, trying to keep my eyes off her butt.
“Watch your step,” she warns ruefully, bending over to pick up a small stuffed elephant. “Liam’s toys seem to find their way all over the house.”
We reach the kitchen and find that the kids have already started to assemble the ingredients. They’ve got flour, sugar, butter, and eggs lined up on the counter, and Liam’s standing on a chair so he can reach the action. Melissa must bake with them often.
“Have a seat,” Melissa says, gesturing to the kitchen table. “How hungry are you?”
“Very,” I admit, realizing I didn’t eat lunch.
She nods as she scoops spaghetti from a pot on the stove onto a plate. “If it’s not warm enough, I can zap it in the microwave,” she offers, setting it in front of me. “What would you like to drink? I have water, milk, orange juice, white wine, or Diet Coke. I’m sorry, I don’t have any beer. Or Pepsi.”
She still remembers that I prefer Pepsi to Coke. “Water’s great.”
The spaghetti’s delicious; the noodles perfectly cooked, the tomato sauce meaty and rich, and I set upon it like a starving man. When I finally look up a few minutes later, I see Melissa watching me from the counter, where she’s helping her kids measure ingredients.
“Did you make this?” I ask her.
She nods modestly. “It’s just spaghetti.”
“It’s delicious.”
Melissa’s lips quirk up; she’s clearly pleased that I like it.
Several minutes later, I finish the spaghetti and carry the plate to the sink. At the counter, Melissa’s helping Liam measure out brown sugar.
“Since we don’t have any more pretzels, we’re making peanut butter chocolate chip,” Claire informs me.
“Sounds delicious.” I tell her with a smile. I lean on the counter and watch as Melissa helps them add peanut butter, then an egg and some vanilla.
“Okay, the dough needs to chill for half an hour.” Melissa stretches cling wrap over the bowl and puts it in the fridge, then tells the kids to wash their hands again.
Once everyone’s hands are clean, Melissa realizes Liam’s got a big smear of peanut butter on the front of his shirt. “Liam, let’s get you changed into your pajamas, then you can have some playtime before bed.” She turns to me as she leads him out of the room. “We’ll just be a minute.”
“I should get going,” I say, but my voice lacks conviction. I shouldn’t interfere with their bedtime routine, but I don’t want to leave.
“Luke, if you leave without the cookies, I will never forgive you,” Melissa quips. “The recipe makes two dozen, and I planned to send them all home with you.”
“Okay,” I say with a chuckle. “I guess the least I can do is take the cookies off your hands.”
Melissa grins. “Claire, why don’t you put your PJs on too?”
They disappear toward the stairs, leaving me alone in the kitchen. I decide I should try to be useful, so I set to work washing the measuring cups and spoons.
When Melissa reappears with her kids a few minutes later, she looks surprised to see me washing her dishes.
“You don’t have to do that,” she exclaims. When Idon’t move, she walks around the counter to try to take my place at the sink. Her hip brushes the side of my thigh, and I feel a rush of heat in my groin.
