Page 164 of The Wrong Heart

I pale.

Then I glance down at her swollen belly, just to make sure my kid didn’t already pop out and I fucking missed it.

“I burned the cupcakes,” she confesses, a horrified cry following. “Who am I? You should just take over.”

What the fuck?

Melody’s expression is riddled with regret.

In the years that I’ve known her, my wife has never once burned a cupcake. She’s well-known around town, practically a local celebrity, having opened up a successful bake shop downtown late last year. It was a natural progression once her in-home bakery became too much to maintain, and the ratio of flour dust to oxygen inside our home was becoming concerning.

I purse my lips through a frown. “The last time I tried to bake cupcakes with you, I forgot three critical ingredients. It was a terrible fucking idea.”

Her eyes flare, then shift to August, who is coming up behind me. “Language,” she whisper-scolds.

Oh, right.I’m trying to be more careful now that our daughter repeats literally everything.

Clearing my throat, I amend, “It was a terriblefudgingidea.”

My eyebrows waggle. Melody blinks.

“Fudging,” I repeat, then let out a drawn-out sigh. “You know, fudge. Cupcakes. C’mon, that pun was gold.”

She stares at me for a moment before a smile stretches and her eyes shimmer with humor. “Oh, my God,” Melody replies, bursting into a fit of giggles and flipping one braid over her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Parker. My mind turned to sludge an hour ago, and I’m living in a perpetual hot flash.”

Her cheeks are rosy red, the flush spreading down her neck and chest. My palms reach out to pull her close, one pressing along her stomach, while the other reaches around her neck.

Fuck,she’s beautiful.

Placing a lingering kiss to her forehead, I whisper, “Now you know what it’s like for me being around you every day.”

She shivers. “Yeah, right… I’m a bowling ball within a bowling ball.”

“You’re fucking gorgeous.” My lips travel down her cheek, landing on two full lips, and I murmur suggestively, “How much time do we have before people show up?”

Melody melts into me for a blissful moment, temptation seizing her. But she quickly collects her bearings and delves right back into panic-mode. “Twenty minutes.”

The doorbell rings.

She goes ashen.

August pushes past us both with a squeal of excitement, still holding onto Nutmeg, while Walden hobble-skips along with her to the front of the house.

I take Melody’s face between my hands and bring her gaze to mine, smiling softly until she noticeably relaxes. “Melody March-Denison.”

“Yes?” she squeaks.

“How many batches of cupcakes did you already make?”

“Twelve.”

“Twelve batches, a dozen each? That’s one-hundred-and-forty-four cupcakes.”

She nods.

“How many regular cakes did you make?”

“Two.”

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