Page 80 of For The Weekend
“Those are funny.”
“They are.” Eloise nods, surreptitiously hiding another pot, one that I’m pretty sure has miniature dicks all over it. I shake my head at her in mock disappointment. She silently laughs in return.
“So,” she says, waving Mazie and me to follow her. “Come have a seat at Café Eloise.” She offers us water or orange juice to drink with an apology. She explains that she has meal kits delivered, but nothing much in the fridge beyond that. “Groceries and meal planning are something I’m terrible at,” she tells me as if that will somehow be a turnoff.
Not possible.
As I sip on my water and Mazie drinks her OJ through a squiggly-shaped straw, which Eloise has a dozen of because of Sloane’s kids, Micah and Olivia, she prepares our dinner.
She moves with a natural grace, even in her small kitchen, and I’m captivated. The way she wiggles her hips, dancing to the music playing as she butters the bread, entertaining Mazie with flourishes of her hand, waving her spatula in the air. Soon, the three of us are seated with bowls of soup and perfectly browned grilled cheese.
With my girls on either side of me, exchanging giggles and stories, it’s the best damn meal I’ve had in a very long time.
Chapter 23
Eloise
I’m more of a daydreamer than usual, my head in the clouds, thinking of Roman.
After I spent the evening with them Saturday night, they came to visit me yesterday, waiting out the Sunday breakfast rush so the three of us could hang out at a table for a bit, sharing a warm cinnamon roll. And I couldn’t help but notice how we were becoming more like a couple—like a family—with every one of these near-daily…dates?
It’s absurd.
The idea of hanging my hat on the eighteen-foot-tall bull of a man and his delightfully foulmouthed daughter is absurd. There’s no way I could fall in love with someone—and their child—so quickly, but the funny feeling in my stomach and the lightness in my chest convince me it is possible.
Normally, I’m a terrible decision-maker. I’m paralyzed by choices, to the point that I avoid them at all costs, but these emotions are real.
There was no choice.
Thereisno choice.
Which is why I think I love Roman.
“All right over there, Elle?” Leonard asks, and I shake myself from my reverie.
“Hm?”
“Are you feeling okay?”
“Oh yeah. I’m fine.” I toss a smile his way, though his brows stay furrowed. “Just thinking…”
He hums barely louder than the quiet whir of the appliances, his eyes studying me closely.
“I’m fine,” I reiterate, forcing myself back to work, but I can feel his stare on me and lift my attention from the pie crust. “Yes, Lenny?”
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I’m not paying you to be my therapist,” I playfully snap, and he raises his hands, looking side to side.
“Don’t see anybody else here, so you might as well tell me what’s bugging you. Or you’ll never get anything done today.”
“It’s really rude how you know me so well.”
He scoffs an amused sound, deep from his chest, waiting for me to spill it. So I do.
“How did you know you were in love with Ann?”
His bushy brows rise, and his features give way to a knowing smirk. “This about that big guy who’s been hanging around?”
