“I don’t care.”
Before I can stop him, he pulls me in, hands braced on my hips, and kisses me anyway. He smells like soap and coffee, and his freshly shaved jaw is smooth against my skin.
When he pulls back, I grin. “And you shaved.”
“Just for you.” He pauses. “Well, and my protocol.” He laughs, then makes a face. “Speaking of hair, I’m surprised you have any left on your head. I pulled half of it out of the drain this morning.”
I snort. “Oh yeah, that happens.”
“That happens,” he repeats, shaking his head. “You shed more than a dog.”
I laugh, sipping my coffee while he finishes lacing his boots.
“Be safe today,” I say quietly.
He glances up at me, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Always am.”
He presses one more kiss to my forehead before heading out, and the door shuts behind him.
By the time afternoon rolls around, I’ve been running errands and checking things off my to-do list like it’s my full-time job. Teacher brain is already kicking into gear.
I stop by the store on the way home, because somehow, in all the chaos of wedding prep and the excitement of leaving for our honeymoon, I forgot the most basic newlywed task of all: making sure our fridge wasn’t completely empty.
I made a meal plan on the drive back from the beach. Mason helped—well, sort of. He made requests, I looked up recipes, and we compromised somewhere in the middle.
Tacos? Easy. Burgers on the grill? He said he’d handle those, I just had to grab the fixings. And then there’s chicken pot pie. That one’s new for me. I usually buy the frozen ones, pop them in the oven for forty-five minutes, and call it a day. But this feels like anew wife, new effortkind of week.
I found a simple recipe online. Real vegetables, real chicken, real gravy. The only cheat? Store-bought pie crusts. I’m hoping he won’t notice. I figure if the filling tastes homemade, I’m safe. One step at a time.
By six, the kitchen smells dangerously close to Maureen’s cooking. I slide the pie into the oven and set the timer. If it’s a disaster, at least I’ve got taco ingredients as backup.
I’m wiping down the counters when I hear the crunch of tires on gravel. Mason’s truck. And the miracle of all miracles—he’s on time.
A few seconds later, two strong hands slide around my waist, resting at my hips. His chest presses against my back, solid and warm.
“Something smells good,” he murmurs, his voice low against my ear. He kisses the side of my neck, and it tickles enough to make me squirm.
“Guess what it is,” I tease, turning my head slightly.
He hums, taking a slow breath. “Hmm. Something with chicken?”
“Yes.”
“Pot pie?”
I spin around, grinning. “Yes!”
He smiles, clearly proud of himself. “Sounds good. Smells even better.”
I beam. “It’s my first one from scratch.”
“Look at you,” he says, voice soft, teasing.
“I know. I’m trying.”
“And I’m already impressed.”
“Good. You’ll be even more impressed if it’s edible.”
