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We had to, though. June was away three days for a traveling stage performance, and she only just got home while I was pouring batter into cake pans.
I was so distracted by the smell of her hair and the warmth of her skin when she came up behind me and wrapped her arms around my middle that I don’t actually remember if I put the cake in the oven.
Maybe it’s not burning at all.
Maybe it’s not even cooking.
Shit.
My cell phone vibrates from the front pocket of the trousers I just pulled back up, so I tug the zipper and fish it out as June runs a comb through her hair. I smile when I glance at the screen.
Pauly: Hello, Brant. Buon compleanno to June. May all of her wishes be fulfilled and all of her blessings be noticed. My Stellina and I are looking forward to visiting you in the fall. In the meantime, continue to impress the great state of New York with your legendary beef Wellington.
A picture comes through of Pauly and Wendy standing in the middle of Chicago’s iconic Millennium Park.
My grin widens.
Yeah, so—that happened.
I can’t say I’m surprised, but…okay, I’m a little surprised. Wendy’s been working for Pauly for years, and their combative bantering always teetered on the line of flirting, but I honestly never thought Pauly would take that next step, considering he’s eighteen years her senior.
But oddly enough, they just work.
And they’re happy. They’re really damn happy, and if I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s that happiness always perseveres over societal conventions.
Although Pauly planned to move out to New York with me last year, he chose to stay in Illinois with Wendy—as their relationship had just started blossoming—overseeing his beloved Anima Mia from afar. I’m basically in charge of the place, and while it’s been a huge learning curve in management and workload, I’m creatively fulfilled in the best way. The restaurant is thriving. The food is garnering attention from food blogs, television shows, and even renowned chefs.
I’m living my dream.
I’m living my dream with the love of my life.
And Pauly is finally calling me by my first name.
As I ponder sending Pauly a selfie of June and me, I notice that her boob is still precariously poking out of her dress, and I don’t seem to have the willpower to tell her to fix it, so I settle on a quick response instead.
That’s when the buzzer rings.
Rushing over to June, I unwillingly adjust her dress and plant a kiss to the tip of her nose. “Happy birthday, Junebug,” I murmur, lingering for a second kiss.
Her lips are shimmering with my favorite cherry gloss as her smile blooms. I’m about to race to the front door when she stops me. “Brant,” she calls out. When I pivot, she sweeps her hair to one side and bites at that delicious cherry lip. “I want a baby, too.”
My eyes flare, stinging with sentiment.
A tickle shoots straight to my heart, filling me with a feeling I can’t even explain.
Buzz.
Jolting in place, I shake myself from the haze—from the vivid daydream of newborns and nurseries and lullabies and precious stuffed elephants—and I nod, grinning like a fool. All I want to do is ravage her again, hoping she missed one of her pills.
Her birthday feels awfully inconvenient right now.
I jog to the front of the small apartment that’s humbly accessorized with streamers and partially deflated balloons, and pull open the door to see a familiar face shining back at me.
“Kip.”
Ah, Kip. I really miss Kip.
He hands me a terribly wrapped box, taped up with what looks to be menus from one of the local delis. “Don’t say anything.” He laughs lightly, sweeping past me with his suitcase and shrugging out of his jacket. “I panic-bought you something as soon as I flew in, grabbed a roll of tape, but forgot the actual wrapping paper.”
