Page 120 of The Trouble with Flings

As I near the kitchen, the other counter comes into view, and my gaze catches on an Easter basket with a lavender ribbon tied around it, overflowing with pastel tissue paper, a chocolate bunny large enough to send an entire classroom into cardiac arrest, and who knows what else. Beside the basket is a plate of charred French toast.

I stare, dumbstruck.

Jennifer keeps singing, swinging her sexy hips, completely oblivious to me standing there staring at her like she personally invented domestic fantasies, and suddenly I can see it all—lazy mornings, holiday traditions, her barefoot in our kitchen making a mess while our kids run through the house hyped up on sugar and life.

Jennifer turns around, the bowl still in her hands, and startles when she spots me. “Fitz.” Her face brightens, but she traps her lower lip between her teeth, her brow furrowing, adorably pensive and excited at once. “Surprise…?”

She’s a beautiful mess, with flour on her cheek and batter on her shirt. It’s all I can do to laugh and close the distance between us. “What’s all this?”

“Your Easter surprise.” She sets down the bowl, then grabs the basket and holds it out to me, her eyes sparkling with a mix of pride and mischief. “I know I’m not exactly a warm and fuzzy person, but you do so much for me, and for us, I wanted to make Easter special for you.”

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” I say as I take the basket, my throat tightening.

“I know, but I thought since Easter was such an important family tradition for you as a child, it would be a nice one to start for ours.”

Our own family tradition? She has no idea the magnitude of the gift she’s giving me. As my fingers brush against the lavender ribbon, I struggle to hold back the surge of emotions consuming me and manage, “I’d like that.”

I set the basket on the island and look through the treasures she brought, withdrawing the chocolate rabbit, which isn’t a solo rabbit. It’s a male rabbit standing on its hind legs and a female rabbit kneeling in front of it, with her mouth around his enormous cock. I bark out a laugh. “Where did you find this?”

“Dixie hooked me up with her cousin Birdie. She owns a chocolate shop in Colorado, and I placed a special order. She was psyched to make it and said she’s going to have to start an adults-only section of her shop.”

We both laugh, and I pull her into a kiss. “You naughty girl.”

I continue going through the basket, taking out pastel-colored eggs, a tiny green onesie with white lettering that reads Of course I’m cute. Have you seen my daddy? Fuck, that one hits me square in the center of my chest. There’s a book of children’s island-themed bedtime stories, a mug that has #DadLife on it, and a book of bad dad jokes. Tucked into the bottom of the basket is a red velvet box. I glance at Jennifer as I take it out of the basket. She looks like she’s holding her breath, and somehow that makes me love her even more.

I open the box and find a silver rattle engraved with Little Bean.

My throat closes up like there’s a fist wrapped around my windpipe. I draw Jennifer into my arms, holding her as I try to regain control, but my heart is so full, it feels like it’s going to climb out of my chest.

“Baby,” I manage, my voice rough.

She melts against me, and I feel her smiling against my chest. For a long moment, I can do little more than hold her. When I finally regain a modicum of control, I frame her face with my hands and gaze into her eyes, reveling in the emotions staring back at me. Those three life-changing words are perched and ready to fly, but I hold them back, knowing better than to take a mile when given a few cherished inches.

Wiping the flour from her cheek, I say, “You know what warm and fuzzy looks like to me? Burnt muffins and a lavender ribbon at seven in the morning. You’re one of a kind, wild girl, and I’m so damn glad you’re mine.”

Her smile softens around the edges, like she doesn’t quite know what to do with that kind of tenderness. “Only you would find burnt muffins romantic.” She lowers her eyes for a moment, then looks around, a little amused, and says, “Sorry about your kitchen. Apparently this is what happens when I care about someone. My version of affection looks less like poetry and more like aggressively attempted baked goods. But the intention is there.”

I press my lips to her forehead, breathing her in. “Lucky for me, I have a penchant for crispy muffins.”

She smiles, then winces. “I think I ruined your muffin pan.”

“Oof.” I shake my head, feigning concern. “I’m afraid you’ll pay grandly for that.” Sliding my hands down her back, I grab her ass and hoist her onto the counter.

She lets out a squeal, lifting onto one butt cheek. I realize I’ve set her in the brown sugar.

“It’ll make you that much sweeter.”

She smiles against my lips as our mouths come together. Our kisses quickly go from tender to ravenous, and there in the disastrous kitchen, on this unforgettable, imperfectly perfect Easter morning—the first of our very own traditions—as our bodies come together as one, everything else fades away, but the feel of my sweet, trusting wild girl and the promise of us.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Jennifer

The buzz of anticipation fills the air as Fitz and I meander through Majestic Park with a handful of his siblings and friends, waiting for the Easter egg hunt to begin. When he said half the island would show up, I thought he was exaggerating, but there must be hundreds of people milling about.

I’m learning that Silver Island doesn’t do anything halfway. The park is the picture of springtime joy, with a giant Silver Island Easter Egg Hunt banner hanging over the entrance, pastel balloons fluttering from lampposts, their ribbons waving in the breeze, and dozens of plastic eggs hanging from tree branches. Long tables offer an array of drinks, baskets of muffins, and towering platters of sugar cookies shaped like bunnies and chicks, compliments of Keira and the Sweet Barista.

Oversized wooden cutouts of colorful Easter eggs and cute rabbits—with holes instead of faces—are set up for photos, alongside hay bales and old wooden barrels overflowing with flowers. The grass is dotted with plastic eggs, some hidden in plain sight, others tucked into flower gardens and rock beds. Kids dart around in their Sunday best, clutching baskets and giggling as they peek through the cutouts, while parents chase after them, snapping photos and chatting with other adults. Even the mayor, who I learned is the father of Levi Steele’s wife, Tara, went all out, dressing up like the Easter bunny. A trail of kids is following him around like he’s the Pied Piper, and Tara, the island’s most sought-after photographer, is moving through the crowd, catching it all on camera.