Cam laughs, handing me the box. “I figured it was a safe bet. You strike me as a dessert-before-dinner kind of woman.”
“I’d never turn down a slice of Penny’s chocolate pie,” I say.
He meets my gaze. “Glad I asked Penny what your favorite was then.”
For a second, we just stand there in the doorway—him looking too hot for words, me holding a pie, and Evie wedged between us, practically vibrating with excitement.
“Come on, Coach!” she says, tugging on his sleeve. “You have to meet Matilda.”
He blinks. “Matilda?”
“My dinosaur. She’s shy.”
He grins, hands me the lilacs, and follows her toward the table. “Well, I’ll be on my best behavior, then.”
I set the flowers on the counter beside the pie box, sunlight catching the petals. Evie’s chattering nonstop, Cam nods along, his smile easy and genuine.
I fill a glass vase with water and lower the lilacs inside, trying not to look as flustered as I feel. They brighten the whole kitchen, cheerful and alive, and something about that makes my chest ache a little.
Cam steps in behind me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him. “Can I help with anything?”
“Uh—” I clear my throat, focusing on the flowers. “You can grab the plates, if you want. Cabinet above the toaster.”
“Got it.”
He moves past me, and for a second I catch the faint scent of soap and something woodsy clinging to him. It’s unfair that a man can smell that good after an afternoon of baseball camp.
He pulls out three plates, glancing over his shoulder with a grin. “Matching set. Maybe you’re the fancy one.”
“Don’t mock my Walmart dishware,” I say, fighting a smile.
“I wouldn't dream of it.”
I hand him silverware, avoiding his eyes because I’m dangerously close to smiling too hard. He takes them from me, fingers brushing mine—a brief, electric contact that leaves my pulse pounding in my ears.
Evie’s voice cuts through the tension. “Mommy! Can I show Coach Wells my new dance?”
Cam straightens. “You dance too?”
She nods proudly. “I learned it on a show! Wanna see?”
He glances at me, amused. “I mean, how do I say no to that?”
“You don’t,” I say, finally laughing.
Evie takes position in the living room and strikes a dramatic pose, one sock on, one off, hair in a crooked ponytail. “Okay! It goes like this!”
Then she launches into what can only be described as interpretive chaos—a mix of twirls, jumps, and what I think might’ve once been a cartwheel attempt.
Cam applauds like she’s performing at Radio City. “That was incredible. I think you’re ready for Broadway.”
“Really?” she beams.
“Absolutely,” he says solemnly.
Evie squeals, spinning in a circle so fast she nearly takes out a chair. I can’t help laughing, the tension in my shoulders finally easing.
Cam turns back to me with that easy grin, setting down the last fork. “You’ve got quite the performer on your hands.”
