Page 92 of Once Upon A Small Town Secret
“Yes,” she says solemnly. “It’s called Shirt Fixers.”
I bark a laugh, give up on finding dignity, and get off the bed. My legs feel pleasantly loose; my head feels like it’s been cleared with a good rain. I hand her a pair of socks from the same drawer because the floors downstairs are always cool.
She pulls the socks on, wriggles her toes, and we pad out to the hall after I pull a pair of sweatpants on. The house creaks the way it always does, settling around us. I don’t turn on many lights—just the light over the kitchen sink.
“I’ll grab the soup,” I say, catching the keys from the hook.
“Are you sure?” she asks, already heading for the fridge like she lives here. The longing pools in my belly. “I can do it.”
“Looking like that?” I say with a lifted brow. “Not a chance, baby. You’ll start a riot.”
She flushes.
“Plus, you’ve been on your feet since like 4:00 this morning. Sit.”
“3:30,” she says, yawning. “But who’s counting.”
“I am,” I say, and step out onto the porch.
The night is still and quiet—river air and crickets and the distant, constant hush that’s become the sound of my neighborhood.
The truck has cooled, which is good news for the soup I forgot was in there. I pop the back and find the lidded quart from the Pint—chicken dumpling that we ran as a lunch special.
When I come through the door, she’s on the other side of the island, hair scooped onto the top of her head with a tie she must’ve dug out of her bag, and her bare legs crossed at the ankle as she leans into my fridge.
The way the T-shirt is rising a little too high, showing me peeks of her ass, almost makes me toss the soup to the ground and throw her over my shoulder to go back to bed.
But she’s carrying my child, and I have to feed her.
I know there isn’t much in my fridge, but there should be enough to throw something together.
“Permission to… forage?” she asks without looking up.
“Granted. Pull out whatever you find.” I pull out a small pot and dump the chicken and dumplings into it before setting it on the stove. “Everything I have is pregnancy safe. Pasteurized everything; no deli meat. I am a safe sandwich zone.”
Her mouth curves, and it does something to me that I can’t explain. “Sexy.”
“Nothing gets me going like the phrase ‘Listeria monocytogenes,’” I say, reaching past her and pulling out the chicken and cheese. “Do you want a soup or should I throw together an omelet. Or both. Or—”
“How about a grilled cheese?”
“I can do that.”
“Plus a pickle on the side.”
My lips curve. “Plus a pickle on the side,” I repeat.
She laughs, low and warm, and slides onto the stool.
I put a pan on, butter down. I grate the cheddar so it melts fast and even, swipe a clove of garlic around the hot face of the bread just for an extra flourish.
The soup loosens when I stir it, then bubbles in a lazy way that makes the whole kitchen smell like a rainy Sunday in October.
She props her chin on her hand and watches me. The navy shirt is the soft kind of worn material that falls where it wants to; every time she shifts, I catch a new angle of knee, the hem skirting higher, the curve of one shoulder where the seam slides wide. I’m trying very hard to be a gentleman about it and only partially succeeding.
“You always cook like this after…” she waves a hand between us, wincing. “After.”
“After the intense neighborhood safety lecture?” I suggest.
