I set down the rag I’m using to clean the windows and walk to the kitchen.
Wilder’s standing in front of the Crock-Pot, his dark hair still damp and unruly, and I know him well enough to know at this point that he’s raked his fingers through it a hundred times.
I hold back my giggle, only barely.
He looks more frazzled than I think I’ve ever seen him, his brow furrowed into a tight crease, his shoulders taut as he stares at the Crock-Pot like it’s done something wrong.
I know it’s not a kitchen appliance that’s the real problem here, but I’m not sure that he does.
“Please don’t break my beloved Crock-Pot,” I say as I lift onto my toes and press a sweet kiss to the corner of his lips.
He grunts grumpily.
But… there’s a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Yeah, well, I can’t get the fucking thing to work. I’ve pressed every damn button twelve times, and it ju?—”
“Wilder.”
His gaze whips to mine, and I lift a brow, my eyes softening as I reach for him, curling my fingers along his forearm. “They’re going to love you.”
I watch as a slow swallow moves down his throat.
The muscle in his jaw working.
His shoulders dropping slightly.
It’s not about the Crock-Pot at all, but my sweet, darling man is actually… nervous.
And he hasn’t quite figured out how to process it.
So he blames the poor, innocent kitchen appliance for not reacting when he pressed the buttons with zero patience because he’s so worked up.
“I promise, it’s going to be fine,” I say.
“This isn’t about meeting your parents, baby. It’s about the fact that the damn thing won’t work. Can’t have dinner if we can’t cook it.”
I lift my shoulder in a shrug. “Then we can order takeout. But not Mr. Changs because Camila loves Mr. Changs, and I already told her we’d get it when they finally get here.”
“How’d you know that Cam likes Mr. Changs?” He cocks his head, and I grin.
“Because we’ve been texting, obviously. I wanted to make sure I had what Lily needs when they come over this week, so I texted her about it, and we’ve been talking ever since.”
Wilder hums, eyeing me warily.
“My apartment is not toddler-proof, and I didn’t know what babies her age even eat or drink besides milk. I needed to prepare. Plus, I wanted to pick up a little present for her from herUncle WyWysince you didn’t see her during Christmas.”
“Fuck, baby, not you too. Jesus.” Wilder groans, dropping his head back on his shoulders and glaring up at the ceiling. Very dramatically, if I must add. “Anything else. Pick literally anything else. How about Uncle Wilder? Easy to remember.”
“Nope,” I say with a pop of my lips.
And then I reach right past him and press two buttons on the Crock-Pot, and it turns on.
Which makes Wilder shake his head and mutter a curse under his breath.
“Problem solved. See?” I lean back against the counter and slip my arms around his neck. “Take a deep breath for me. I promise you that everything is going to be great, and you have nothing to worry about.”
Yes, tonight is a big deal, but my parents have started to come around some to the idea of us being together.
