Page 74 of Dice & Dekes

Silence.

Coach pulls out his phone and taps the screen a few times, then passes it to Tristan, who holds it up for the rest of us to see. On the screen, a tiny, fat desert rain frog is sitting at a frog-sized kitchen table in front of a toy tea set, wearing the world’s smallest bonnet.

“I gotta follow him,” Camden says at once.

Soon, all my teammates have their phones out so they can share their favorite cute animal videos. And here I was thinking that Lenyx wouldn’t fall for my offhand lie.

Camden’s completely right, by the way. Buggy’s Shark Week outfit is adorable. His bulging eyes and floppy, sideways tongue sticking out of his handmade shark hat are pretty darn cute, but it’s the tiny shark-shaped booties that bring the whole ensemble together.

Sometimes I am embarrassed to be the captain of this team, and it’s frog-loving leader.

But I still save the post. Not for me—okay, maybe a little for me—but mostly because I know Knova’s going to lose her shit when she sees it.

And yeah. That thought? That’s what really makes me smile like an idiot.

* * *

Just as Knova requested, I text as soon as I turn the car’s engine off. I gather all my travel crap out of the back seat like I’m in the last leg of an obstacle course, all adrenaline and tunnel vision. My body’s running on caffeine, plane pretzels, and the need to see her face. The car door slams shut just as my stomach rumbles loud enough to echo off the walls. I’m starving. I could murder a pizza right now.

The smell of beef, carrots, and herbs stops me in my tracks when I reach the front door. My stomach rumbles a second time in response. Did Knova… cook? I know she can—and sometimes, she doesn’t even burn the house down in the process—but other than simple breakfasts and the occasional hard-boiled egg, she hasn’t cooked much since she moved in. She certainly hasn’t cooked anything that smells like pot roast.

I drag my stuff inside and abandon it by the door, then follow my nose to the kitchen. “Hello?”

“Almost done,” Knova calls back. “Dinner will be ready in, hmm, ten minutes?”

“I thought you might be cooking, it smells ama—” I round the corner into the kitchen and flatline like I’ve been tasered. I trip over my own damn feet, catching the edge of the doorway to stay upright, breath stolen and brain fried. “—zing,” I finish weakly, because holy hell, what else am I supposed to say when my wife looks like every fantasy I’ve ever had, cooked up in a fever dream?

She’s standing at the counter in nothing but a 1950s-style apron, the pale pink fabric trimmed with tiny white ruffles and tied in perfect bows—one at the back of her neck and another around her waist. That’s it. That’s the whole outfit. Her bare skin glows warm in the golden light of the kitchen, and when she glances back at me over her shoulder, she looks positively edible.

“Welcome home, honey,” she purrs.

“What is this?” My voice cracks like I’m thirteen again. “Not that I’m complaining—at all—but is there a special occasion? Are we celebrating? Did you win the lottery? Areyouthe lottery?”

Knova turns slowly, giving me a full view. The apron hangs just high enough to flash the curve of her hips and the shadowed cleft between her thighs. I catch a glint of moisture there—just the barest shimmer—and my brain flatlines again. My cock surges so fast it’s like it’s trying to break out of my pants to greet her.

Her perfect, pink nipples peek through the thin fabric, clearly visible. I’d swear her skin’s flushed a shade deeper, and I can’t tell if it’s from the heat of the oven or the fact that she likes that I’m looking at her like this. Like I want to fall to my knees and worship.

“This,” she says with a smirk, “is the wife experience. I went traditional.”

“I feel like you missed the part where wives used to wear dresses with heels, but I am so not mad about that.”

I walk toward her, mesmerized, and then suddenly freeze—because right behind her, I see sunlight pouring in through the living room’s giant windows.

“Jesus, Knova,” I whisper, eyes darting to the sheer nothingness that separates us from our neighbors. “We still don’t have curtains. You’re putting on a private show for the whole damn neighborhood.”

She arches an eyebrow and points with her spatula. “We do now. I installed blinds this morning. You just haven’t noticed yet because you only look at me.”

“Fair point.”

“Focus, Abbott. I made beef stew and angel food cake. You can either eat like a king, or get handsy and risk getting burned.”

I trail my hand up her thigh anyway, fingers grazing the edge of that glistening heat. “Can’t I do both?”

Her breath hitches, her eyes darkening.

“I’ve been cooking all day.” She wiggles as if she’s trying to get away from me, but her apron comes untied in the process, slipping lower until her breasts are almost bared.

The oven timer goes off, and Knova darts forward to retrieve a pair of oven mitts that match the frilly floral design of her apron. Watching her bend over to retrieve the hot cake tin from the oven is a revelation. She slides the cake tin onto the butcher block and shuts off the oven.

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