Aidan retrieves a glass vase from the cabinet and fills it with water. His movements are careful as he unwraps the peonies, trimming the stems with scissors I didn’teven see him find. There’s something mesmerizing about watching his large, rough hands handle something so delicate with such care.
He arranges the flowers, adjusting them with surprising attention to detail, making sure each bloom has its place. When he’s satisfied, he sets them on the counter near the window where the afternoon light catches the ivory petals.
Then he leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching us with an amused expression. “Be careful with that spoon. Remember what happened with the pasta sauce at home?”
“I’ll be super careful,” Isla promises, gripping the utensil with determination.
I measure out the cornstarch and sugar, adding them to the bowl of cherries. “Okay, now we mix it all together.”
Isla attacks the task with enthusiasm, stirring so vigorously that cherry juice splashes up from the bowl.
“Whoa there,” I laugh, placing my hand over hers to slow her down. “Like this, see? Gentle circles.”
She nods, trying to mimic my movements, but her enthusiasm can’t be contained. As she dips the spoon back into the mixture, her elbow knocks against the bowl, sending it teetering toward the edge of the counter.
“Isla—” Aidan lunges forward, but he’s a second too late.
The bowl tips over, sending a crimson wave of cherry filling cascading down the front of his clean shirt. It splashes across his chest and drips down onto his jeans, leaving him looking like something from a horror movie.
We all freeze. Isla’s mouth forms a perfect O of shock, her eyes wide with horror. Aidan stands there, arms outstretched, cherry juice dripping from his fingertips onto my kitchen floor.
Then Isla giggles. It starts small, a tiny sound that bubbles up from her chest, and then it grows until she’s doubled over, clutching her stomach.
“Daddy looks like a monster!” she howls, pointing at the red stains spreading across his shirt.
I press my lips together, trying desperately to maintain my composure, but it’s impossible. A snort escapes me, then another until I’m laughing, too, tears forming at the corners of my eyes.
Aidan looks down at himself, then back at us. His eyes narrow.
“Glad I could provide today’s entertainment,” he mutters dryly, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth gives him away.
I’m wheezing at this point. “I’m so sorry,” I say, breathless through my laughter, grabbing the nearest dish towel. “Here, let me?—”
“Don’t.” He lifts a hand, his palm sticky and glistening with pie filling. “If you touch me, you’re going down with me.”
“Is that a threat?” I ask, my voice still quivering with laughter. I hold the dish towel out as a peace offering, staying just out of his reach.
He takes a predatory step forward. “Consider it a promise, lass.”
Isla’s still giggling, perched on her stool and watching us with bright, curious eyes. “Lucy’s gonna get all sticky, too!”
“Not if I can help it,” I say, backing away slowly, the towel clutched to my chest.
Aidan glances down at his ruined shirt, then back at me, his eyes darkening with mischief. “Come here, Lucy,” he says. “Don’t you want a hug?”
“Don’t you dare!” I laugh, retreating until my back hits the refrigerator. “You’re dripping all over my floor!”
A wicked grin spreads across his face as he lunges forward, impossibly quick. Before I can dodge, he’s on me, strong arms wrapping around my waist and lifting me clean off thefloor in one fluid motion. I squeal as he spins me around, pressing his cherry-covered torso against me, the sticky sweetness soaking through my apron.
“Aidan!” I shriek, squirming in his grip as my feet dangle helplessly above the ground. His laughter rumbles deep in his chest, vibrating against me as he holds me.
Isla’s giggles fill the kitchen as she claps her hands. “You match!”
“That was the plan,” Aidan murmurs against my ear, his voice low enough that only I can hear. He sets me down slowly, his hands lingering at my waist.
I look down at my previously flour-dusted apron, now sporting a perfect cherry-red imprint of his chest. “You’re terrible,” I say, trying to sound stern despite my smile.
I manage to point toward the hallway, tears of laughter threatening at the corners of my eyes. “Bathroom. Clean towels under the sink. Try not to drip all the way there.”
