Page 80 of End Game
Maybe.
Layla
The silverware jingles in the drawer as I rummage for a fork. With only the stove light on, it’s a little dim to be milling about. I could totally turn the chandelier on, but I like the ambiance of the low light in the middle of the night when I’m foraging for a snack.
Settling on a utensil, I open the container from the bakery. The kitchen fills with the smell of sweet cinnamon and as I dig into it, a sound filters in from the staircase. In a minute’s time, Branch pads into the room, his hair sticking up, yawning.
“What time is it?” he asks.
“Two a.m.,” I say, sticking a forkful of coffeecake into my mouth. “Why?”
“Just wondering.”
I’m stopped when he takes the fork and shovels more cake in my mouth. Laughing, I chew it up and swallow.
“That wasn’t very nice,” I point out.
“You talk too much.” He takes his own bite of the cake. “Damn. This is good.”
“Told you. You should’ve bought your own slice.” I take the fork out of his hand and scoop up another piece. “Why are you up?”
“I don’t know. It’s so quiet here. So dark. I love falling asleep to it like this, but if I wake up, I have a hard time going back to sleep. Is that weird?”
“Probably.”
“I saw this show once where this guy would sneak in houses and, while people were asleep, he’d?—”
“Stop!” I giggle, shoving him backward.
We still, our eyes locking, as my hand touches his chest. I force a swallow, my entire body tingling from the contact.
He shakes his head as he gets two glasses out of the cabinet. “Want a glass of milk?”
“Sure.”
I watch as he pours us both a drink, his back muscles rippling even under the not-so-bright light. I imagine him waking up in the middle of the night to change a diaper or feed a baby and my heart swells, then falls because I won’t see that.
“What are you thinking?” he asks with a quirked brow, handing me a glass.
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit. You have this weird look on your face.”
“I was watching you pour the milk and realized we’ll be making lots of milk runs coming up in the middle of the night. We’ll have to trade notes,” I say, choking back a lump, “so we make sure we stay on the same schedule and stuff.”
His lips twist together. “I might have to get a nanny. I’ve been thinking about it. I have to be at the complex at five in the morning. I’m gone all weekend every weekend through the season.”
“I can keep the baby. I mean, you could come see it when you can.”
“I don’t want to be that guy,” he sighs. “I don’t want to be the dad who sees his kid twice a week.”
I try to force a smile, but fail. “I’ve been thinking about moving up here.”
“Here? It’s three hours from Chicago.”
“Hey, you told me not to let Callum start calling the shots,” I point out.
“I’m not Callum.”
