I wink at her. “You can have some, Cheyenne. I think you deserve some, actually, caretaking for my baby mama here.”
“Baby mama?!” Willow squeaks from the couch. “Did I just hear that right?”
“That’s right, Willow. This man that you let into your house called you his baby mama,” Cheyenne declares, shooting me daggers with her eyes as she grabs vitamin containers from the cabinets.
“Sure, look, facts are facts,” I say with a shrug.
The house smells like candle wax and ginger tea, like Cheyenne’s been oscillating between lighting candles and making tea. Willow’s propped up with pillows, curls loose around her shoulders, blanket pulled to her waist. Sweatpants, soft T-shirt. She looks gentle, like someone I shouldn’t want but do anyway. I swallow, realizing that I want her even in sweatpants, that she looks just as hot to me as she did in a tight dress.
“Doctor’s orders,” I announce, setting the bags on the counter. “I feed you. You sit there and look pretty, so you will.”
Cheynne snorts. “That’s not in any chart.”
“Want me to forge one?” I ask, and Willow throws a pillow at me.
I catch it with a laugh and toss it back, then start setting mymessagesin front of me like I’m on a cooking show. Pasta,tomatoes, garlic, basil, mozzarella. I pull out the warm bread and bring it to her on the couch. “Here, snack on this while I cook.”
She laughs even as she accepts the baguette. “I don’t know if this qualifies as a snack.”
“You’re growing three humans, Willow. It’s a snack.”
She sniffs the end before biting off a hunk. “So, you actually meant it? You came here to cook?”
“You wound me. Of course I did.”
“You could’ve just ordered takeout.”
“Where’s the romance in that?” I grin over my shoulder. “Besides, this way I can wow you with my knife skills.”
Cheyenne mutters something about “romance my ass” and then says a little louder, “As long as you’re here, I’m going to leave for the night to see my husband. But I have eyes everywhere, let it be known.”
I wave her away, saying, “Grand. I got this, you go. Go.” She gives me a warning glare as she leaves, but it doesn’t matter. Willow’s laughter is the only thing that sticks.
I roll up my sleeves and get to work. The sauce is simple. Tomatoes, garlic, basil, and olive oil. Salt, pepper, and sugar. Let it simmer. The pasta can wait while that’s simmering.
Willow narrates from the couch like she’s hosting a parody broadcast. “That dice job’s tragic. Gordon Ramsay would cry.”
“He’d hire me on the spot,” I shoot back. “Because I’ve got flair,like.”
“Oh, and he’s so famously invested inflair.”
“Careful, or you’ll be eating plain noodles.”
She laughs again, her hand over her mouth, her body rocking, and for a moment it feels like the cruise again. Dancing together,legging itto my room, undressing each other…
Clearing my throat and trying to force the memory away, I plate the pasta with a flourish and carry hers over first. She eyes it suspiciously before asking me with a deadpan that I’ve started to expect from her, “Are you and Declan competing for Most Suffocating or something?”
I tilt my head, fork still in my hand. “Suffocating?”
“Mm-hm.” She stabs a meatball dramatically, but her fork hovers over the plate. “He told me he’s booking me into some Lamaze class when the bed rest is over, and now here you are, cooking me dinner. I just wondered if you two had a bet about who could be most up my ass.”
I bark out a laugh, shaking my head. “Comparing pasta and homemade sauce to a Lamaze class under duress doesn’t seem fair.”
Her eyes glitter, daring me. “Okay, so are you going to try and one-up him with prenatal yoga or something?”
“Nah.” I shrug, easy. “I’ll just come with you. I can be up your ass at the class.”
The bite of pasta freezes halfway to her mouth. “You’ll what?”
