Page 28 of Fierce-Baker

“I was joking,” he lied.

A forced laugh shot out. “Yeah, sure. The same.”

She wasn’t good at hiding the truth any more than him.

“I should get out of your way.”

“Wherever you were going, you need to change now. Sorry, but you’ve got dirt on your shorts.”

He looked down to see where her eyes had landed. Right on his thigh was a line of grease. Any closer and he would have thought she was looking at his crotch.

“I was only going to pick up food. I don’t need to be that fancy to get a sub.”

“If you don’t have any plans and you were getting food, let me cook dinner for you as a thank you.”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“You’re not. Just like I didn’t ask you to fix my tire and you did anyway. I mean it. It’s the least I can do.”

“You sure you don’t want to enjoy the night to yourself?”

His eyes moved over the tidy space with a quiet sense of admiration. There were hints of a child. Pictures on the walls, a stuffed rhino waiting on a chair, a toy chest tucked neatly in the corner, a red sippy cup and its lid by the sink.

But the usual chaos that came with a toddler—the scattered toys, the messes, the whirlwind energy—none of it was here. It felt cared for, intentional…a reflection of her.

A woman who controlled not just a room but the surrounding air.

Like she was this situation and telling him she wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

“I’m positive. I didn’t even want to have the night to myself. Be a sport and keep me company.”

It was hard to say no when maybe he wasn’t so sure he wanted to sit by himself tonight either.

He just had to remind himself all the reasons he shouldn’t be here and hope he could stay strong to follow through on them.

“Do you mind if I run home and change first? Not sure this grease will come out if it stays on too long.”

“Bring them back. I’m a laundry pro. Just ask Margo. I got every stain out of all her clothes. It was like this tradeoff we had. She cooked and I cleaned. Everything. Even her clothes.”

He laughed. “No one has done my laundry since I was eight.”

“Eight! Your mother had you doing your laundry at eight years old?”

“Long story,” he said. He didn’t need to bore her with the depression his mother went through when she had her suspicions of his father’s extracurricular activities. He just didn’t know what that meant at that age.

Only that clothes were backing up in the baskets, dust was building on the counter, and food wasn’t always cooked.

Then one day, it just all changed. His mother found another gear and turned into the perfect wife.

Too bad it never worked the way she wanted, but it kept his father’s eye from wandering for longer stretches, even if his mother exhausted herself trying to please the man.

Yeah, those weren’t the type of things you shared with someone.

Least of all someone who made his blood boil, his hands itch to yank her close, and his mouth ready to land on hers.

Not sharing those thoughts either.

“Long story or not, come back with those shorts. I mean it. I know where you live and I don’t have a child keeping me home. I’ll just show up at your door yelling through it to give me your dirty shorts.”