I blink. “You…bake?”
“Yeah, quite often, actually.”
“Seriously? Is there anything you don’t do?”
His eyes flick to me, guarded, but there’s the smallest hint of amusement under his frustration of my teasing. “I hate doing my taxes, laundry, and changing the oil in my car.”
“That’s oddly specific.”
He shrugs. “A few examples of things I leave for other people to do.”
“Smart man. So why baking?”
“It helps me relax. And it reminds me of my childhood spent with my grandparents. Money was tight and my abuela loved baking, so she often made our favorite treats instead of buying them from the bakery.”
Something about the admission makes my chest tighten. “I love that. Are these American oatmeal cookies, or do you have some secret Swedish recipe?”
“These are thin, crispy oatmeal cookies from Scandinavia. You’ll never think of oatmeal cookies the same way after you try one.”
I arch a brow at his challenging tone. “That good?”
“Guess you’ll have to wait and see.”
The cabin is quiet except for the crackling of the fire in the stone fireplace and the cutlery touching our plates. The wood smoke scent mixes with the lingering aroma of Pasta Alfredo Rasmus cooked for us. And for a change, I feel settled, warm, and happy.
Rasmus sits lazily in his chair across from me, a beer bottle dangling loosely from his fingers. It took some convincing forhim to drink it as he thought it would be unfair to me. I don’t mind if he drinks while I’m pregnant.
His long hair is still damp from his shower. It curls slightly at the ends, and tonight’s one of the only times I have seen it down. It’s unfair how good Rasmus looks with so little effort.
Not to forget the show I had earlier when he chopped that damn wood.
His strong hands effortlessly gripped the axe handle, veins flexing as he raised it above his head. The muscles in his tattooed arms and shoulders coiled, a perfect display of his strength as he brought the blade down in one fluid motion. The sharp crack of splitting wood rang through the air, but I could only focus on how his body moved.
I was about to combust when beads of sweat slid down his handsome face, tracing a slow path through his beard. It vanished under his white T-shirt, where I knew I’d find even more ink decorating his skin. That damn cotton clung to him and teased the sculpted lines of his incredible body. And just when I thought it couldn’t get any hotter, he lifted his shirt to wipe his face.
Haisley, please stop it. No fantasizing about your baby daddy. No, no, no.
I push my empty plate aside. “So, how did your parents meet?”
He tips his beer back for a sip and sets it down after. “My mom was traveling around Asia with friends, and my dad was their surf instructor in Bali. One thing led to another, and here I am.”
“So, you’re part world traveler, part surfer spawn. That explains a lot,” I tell him. “Your parents’ story sounds romantic.”
“Or reckless. It depends on who you ask.”
“Maybe a little bit of both. But it reminds me of how we created our little Meatball.”
His fingers tap against the bottle, eyes distant. “That’s such a depressive thought. I don’t want to follow their footsteps.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he says. “You know, I wondered a lot…what if he had lived?”
“Your dad died when you were a baby?”
“Yeah, he got into some accident in Bali and passed away before having a chance to meet me, his only son,” he sighs. “I never knew him. But sometimes I think about how different things would’ve been.”
I understand him in a way I wish I didn’t. “Yeah. I get that.”
