Page 96 of The Map of Nova and Dev

“You promise?” He raises a dark brow.

I clamp my lips shut with a firm nod. “I promise to never share—”

“Or bake.”

His interruption earns my glare. “Orbakethis recipe for anyone who isn’t in your family.”

Unlocking my fingers, he steps back. “Welcome to the fold.”

And once again, I can’t hold in my laughter. “You’re way weirder than I remember.”

“Thank you.”

Picking up the recipe card, I read the title:DW’s Cinnamon roll pancakes

“Who’s DW?”

“Devin and Willa, obviously.”

“Ahhh.” I continue reading the notecard written and rewritten in childish handwriting. “It’s just basic pancake batter with a few added spices and a powdered sugar frosting. That’s top secret?”

Devin pauses in the middle of the kitchen, his jaw dropping as he holds Briar’s fresh bottle.

“Sorry. Of course, it’s top secret. This sounds amazing.” I rub my stomach.

“That’s more like it.” He tosses me a wink and resumes pulling out a mixing bowl after handing Briar her bottle.

“Hand her over.” I hold my arms out for the youngest Thomas.

Devin steps into me, relinquishing her without complaint as he kisses the crown of her peach fuzz and his arm grazes mine. Just the subtlest touch and my body zings to life. I scurry back.

His mouth twists, a telltale sign my movement didn’t go unnoticed, as he turns back to the counter next to Clem. Gripping the back of his hoodie, Devin tugs it over his head, the hem of his shirt riding up, and my eyes feast on his abs carved like a freaking Greek god statue. Flickers of footage of our last night together in New Orleans assault my mind. Squeezing my eyes shut, I try clearing the memories.

While Devin preps the ingredients, my eyes hone in on his inked forearm like a laser beam. The lines of my sketch flex and shift with each of his motions. A tattoo he got in memory of our trip. When did he get it? I would’ve noticed if he had it in Louisiana. Was it before we stopped texting? After? A piece of closure on our time together.

As Devin helps Clem mix the batter, he says, “When Willa and I were kids, we loved cinnamon rolls—still do, and if you’ve had her homemade recipe, you get it—but our mom didn’t always have time to make them. So, we came up with this recipe when the craving hit.”

Cinnamon, go figure.“You and Willa.”

“Yeah, something simple enough we could make ourselves when Mom was working,” he shrugs, “or when she needed sleep. It took a few times to get it right, as you can see by the crossed-out measurements.”

I nod my understanding. Sharon was alone to do it all for so many years. And knowing Devin was raised by a single mom sheds a different light on him. Not that I haven’t always known, but being older, I have a better grasp on what that means.

“You guys mixed the batter.” I nudge Devin aside as he pulls out the griddle and plugs it in. “Why don’t you let me make them, so you can eat as they’re done.”

“I didn’t invite you so you could make us breakfast.”

“And I’m not. The hard part’s over. I just need to flip them. Snuggle your nieces while I cook these babies up.”

Taking Briar back, Devin sits on the counter next to Clem as she dives into her love of first grade and her teacher, as well as the gymnastics class she’s taking, while Briar adds in her fragmented toddler speech. I steal a peek every now and then, Devin’s full attention aimed at his nieces with the most tender, ovary-bursting smiles. It’s too much to watch for long, so I focus on the hot griddle to not burn their precious, top-secret pancakes.

The warmth of Devin’s body hits me before his words do. “Do you need any help?” he asks at my back as I flip a pancake.

Goosebumps speckle the back of my neck, a shiver coursing up my spine. With one glance over my shoulder, we come face-to-face, his head angled down. I couldn’t stifle my sharp intake of breath even if I wasn’t taken aback by his proximity. Devin’s stare falls on my parted mouth as mine does on his. His teeth skim the inside edge of his lower lip and my core tightens. When my eyes lift, he’s peering at me with an intensity too strong for seven in the morning. My chest heaves, my tongue slipping out to wet my lips. Every instinct inside me screams to close the gap, but sensibility holds me back until Devin’s leaning in. His chin dips, his nose brushing the tip of mine.

Clementine’s peal of laughter startles me to the present, and I turn away. My hell. What are we doing?

“No, it’s all right. The pancakes are almost ready.” I roll my shoulders, and they brush against his hard, cotton-clad chest. “Take the time to sit with Clem and Briar.”

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