We fall into a rhythm as if we’ve done this a hundred times before—me grabbing the eggs she missed from the fridge, her measuring the flour. The cold air from the fridge nips at my arms just as a muffled meow comes from behind me.
I halt and turn.
“Did you just meow at me?”
Her grin stretches wide, and she presses a hand to her chest. The same sound comes again, this time more muted.
“Still think this sweater is sexy?”
“Oh, the sexiest,” I purr. “Do it again.”
She grabs a tea towel and flings it at my head.
I duck, laughing.
“Who gave you that?”
“Angela. We had an ugly sweater day at the office. Mine wasn’t quite hideous enough.”
She climbs on top of the counter and presses up onto her toes to reach the top shelf. Before she jumps down, I step closer, grab her by the waist, and lift her to the floor.
She doesn’t flinch.
Her lips pull at the corners, and there’s a subtle light in her eyes—not overwhelming brightness, just a gentle, sincere glow. Her smile is the kind of thing you want to keep forever, as if you could reach out and touch it anytime you needed a boost. Capturing it in a picture seems too fleeting. I need it with me all the time,
Again, I get lost in her as she carries out the most mundane tasks. There is absolutely nothing fascinating watching someone count birthday candles, but somehow, when Erin does it, I’m four years old again, captivated by Milo the Magician pulling a coin out from behind my dad’s ear.
Her lips move as she counts, and her hair tumbles around her face. I can’t look away.
Her phone buzzes then, and she glances at the screen on the counter before tucking it into her pocket.
“Who’s the charmer?” I ask, instantly on high alert.
“Ro—” She cuts herself off, cheeks flooding rouge. “No one.”
I arch a brow. “Sure doesn’t seem like no one. Who’s the text from, Bookworm?”
Her bottom lip juts out, and damn, she’s cute when she’s pretending to be mad.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she mutters.
“Suit yourself.” I grab the mixing bowl and head to the bin, knowing Jeremiah Dustin would be appalled with what I’mabout to do. She gasps when the lid flicks open after I slam my foot down on the pedal.
The sound ricochets off the wall. “You wouldn’t.”
“Yeah, baby, I would.”
Her eyes go wide as I tilt the bowl over the bin. The mixture begins to slide toward the edge.
“It’s your birthday present!” she blurts.
I pause. “My birthday present?”
“Yes, but you can’t see it yet. It’s not ready.”
“Did you know it was my birthday before I called you?” I ask curiously, knowing we’d only spoken about it the day I invited her to my event.
“Maybe.” She shrugs, her eyes trained on the bowl. “Now, step away from the bin and keep your hands on the bowl where I can see them,Pretty Boy.”
