"Kitchen!" she announces proudly, pointing in the direction she just came from.
"Is he making dinner?"
"Mess!"
That's not encouraging.
I carry Olivia toward the kitchen, and sure enough, Cole is standing at the stove with flour somehow dusted across his black t-shirt and what looks like pancake batter splattered on the counter, the floor, and possibly the ceiling. He looks up when we enter, and the smile that crosses his face makes my heart do the thing it's been doing for two years now—that squeeze, that overwhelming rush of love and want and home.
"Hey," he says.
"Hey yourself. What happened in here?"
"Olivia wanted to help make dinner."
"Olivia is eighteen months old."
"She's very enthusiastic."
I look at my daughter, who is indeed looking extremely proud of herself. "Did you help Daddy make a mess?"
"Mess!" she agrees cheerfully.
Cole crosses the kitchen and kisses me, one hand coming up to cup the back of my neck the way he always does, like he needs to hold me there to make sure this is real.
"How was work?" he asks when he pulls back.
"Long. We're doing year-end reconciliation and everything is terrible."
"That bad?"
"Mrs. Henderson's bookkeeping makes me want to scream. But I survived. How was your day?"
"Good. Taught three classes. Olivia destroyed the living room. Archie knocked over a plant. Normal Tuesday."
I laugh despite myself. "Where is Archie?"
"Basement. He's mad at me because I wouldn't let him eat Olivia's lunch."
"He has his own food."
"I explained that. He disagreed."
I shift Olivia to my other hip and survey the kitchen disaster. "Should I even ask what you're making?"
"Pancakes."
"For dinner?"
"Olivia requested them specifically."
"Olivia's vocabulary consists of maybe twenty words, and pancake isn't one of them."
"She pointed at the box very insistently."
I love this man so much it's ridiculous.
"Go sit down," I say. "I'll finish this. You've got a fight tonight, right?"
