Page 83 of Sweet Escape
The oven timer goes off, and she replaces one pan with another, placing the first pan on a cooling rack. “It’s a lot to wrap my head around. I had it all planned out. Before, I mean. Pink tile backsplash, a massive pantry, and an industrial mixer. I even had a name picked out: Lick the Spoon.” She chews on the inside of her cheek. “I was so close. Now it just feels so far out of reach. It’d be crazy to even think about starting a business when I’m getting ready to give birth.”
“I don’t think it’s crazy. You don’t have to give up on your dreams because you’re about to be a mom. Maybe it doesn’t have to be a brick-and-mortar right now. If you want to change my backsplash to pink fucking tiles, be my guest.”
She laughs, and it feels like a small victory. “You might regret saying that.”
I step closer, caging her against the island. “When it comes to you, I could never regret a damn thing.”
Her eyes widen, those stunning blue pools deepening a fraction. Olivia places her palm flat on my chest and her fist closes around my shirt. She tugs, and my lips collide with hers. She tastes like chocolate.
I let her take control, enjoying the feel of her soft lips and the glide of her tongue against mine. Something heady and unspoken passes between us, and she pulls away. Breathless.
“What was that for?”
She bites down on her bottom lip and shrugs. There’s something she’s not saying, but I let it go.
“Since Em’s not here, who gets to lick the spoon?” I ask.
“If you want a taste, all you have to do is ask.”
She sweeps a finger through some frosting and brings it up between us. I lean in to lick it off, but she smears it on my nose instead, then dashes around the counter.
“Big mistake, Cupcake.”
She giggles and starts down the hallway, but not fast enough.
I catch her around the waist and haul her into my arms. “You’re gonna regret that.”
“No, I won’t. I could never regret a damn thing with you, Wilder Hayes.”
Chapter 22
Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck
?Blessed - Thomas Rhett
20 weeks: Baby is the size of a banana
Olivia
“Halfway there,”Evie says, returning from her pantry with another armload of ingredients. She deposits them on the island,pointing to each one in quick succession to ensure we have everything on hand to make her famous chocolate chip cookies. “So… does my grandbaby have a name yet?”
I blow out a breath as I take a seat, resting my chin in the palm of my hand. “No. I’m too indecisive. How did you do it?”
“None of my babies had names until they were in my arms.” For a moment, her eyes become unfocused like she’s replaying a memory. “When I looked at them, I knew. Wilder would’ve been named Russell Junior if he had his way.”
I grimace at the possibility of screaming my father-in-law’s name in thebedroom, steeling my expression before Evie can make sense of it.
“Wilder’s been absolutely no help in that department,” I say. “If you could help me convince him that Agnes sounds like an octogenarian who keeps toffees in her purse to hand out during drag queen story hour at the nursing home, I’d appreciate it.”
She laughs as she reaches into a cupboard for a mixing bowl. “I love my boys dearly, but they’re better suited to hard labor. You’ve got time to think it over. Don’t rush it.”
Scanning the items laid out across the butcher block, I try to unravel the mystery of Evie’s cookie recipe, but I don’t see anything out of the ordinary. “Ok, I have to know. What’s the secret? This looks exactly like my recipe, and I’ve never been able to get them to taste as good as yours.”
“If I tell you, that makes you family. You ready for that commitment?”
“I think this”—I rub my palm over my belly—“already did that for me.”
Her eyes crinkle with amusement, and she slides a battered and stained recipe card across the countertop, the exact measurements and instructions written out in delicate, precise handwriting. I read out every detail, my eyes landing on the subtle difference between her recipe and mine. “Son-of-a… you brown the butter.”
