I gesture with both hands at him like, “You see what you’re asking me to put up with!” But Maria ignores me.
“I’d love to take care of you, Peaches. No imposition at all,” he says a bit softer, and I shoot a confused look his way at the tenderness of that statement. Nobody said anything about taking care of me. Just to be here to stave off another EyebrowGate.
“Thank you.” Maria sighs, sliding into her high heels. “I feel much better leaving now. Make sure she shuts off the gas line, doesn’t climb anything, and doesn’t attempt to use knives. Love you, bye.” The breeze of the shutting door brushes my cheek, and I’m left standing in the entryway with Liam.
A tension-filled silence settles around us, and I bounce on my toes. “You mind if you get those dirty?” I gesture to his clothes.
He glances down; a worry line forms a crease between his brows. “No?”
“I think I have another apron in the bedroom, just in case.”
His eyes snap back to mine, and the wrinkle eases. “You want to bake with me?” he asks in a soft, hopeful tone.
Given our history—his surprise is justified. When we were younger, Sunday baking was a Nana specialty. Chocolate chip cookies, brownies, mayonnaise cake, whatever sweet treat Nana wanted for the week, we baked and packed, sending half to the Kellys and keeping half for ourselves. Nana always invited Liam to bake with us, but his chaotic energy to my prim demeanor was like mixing oil and vinegar, so eventually, she put me at one half of the island with my own station and him at another. I never let him come to my side. Not that it stopped him. I usually got a dough bomb or batter splattered all over my face at one point or another.
I begged Nana to let it just be us, but she’d always maintain a similar mantra:“Someday, you’ll need that boy as much as he needs you now.”
I finally pull my eyes off Liam’s bottom lip, desperate to feel them brush against mine, and answer his question. “I mean, you’re here. And baking together would probably make for a cute story we could tell if you wanted.”
“Yeah, no, baking sounds great. If you’re feeling up to it.”
“Feeling up to doing something and needing to do it rarely align properly.” I shrug. “Hold on. I’ll go get the spare.”
Wading through my pile of a room, I use the time searching for my pink apron to gather the single wit I still possess and, honestly, release a bit of gas. I’m not in a space to pretend I’m not in immense pain, so trusting Liam with my vulnerability it is.
Gross.
But he stopped his work to bring me over a baguette, which is a genuinely wonderful thing to do, so maybe it won’t be that bad.
Back in the kitchen, Liam’s forearms draw me into his orbit like a tractor beam as he rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, his suit jacket now draped across a kitchen chair.
I toss the apron at him and grab my own to protect my cooling hot water bottle.
A sharp intake snaps my attention to Liam, sporting pink frills and somehow maintaining that devastating lazy charm. He clears his throat, but his stare remains heavy on me. “I didn’t know you had Nana’s.”
“Oh, yeah.” I fumble with the strings to the Tiffany blue apron. “I like having her with me when I’m doing this,” I hum. Moving over to the counter with the bowls, I straighten the labels underneath, content that each station has its ingredients, bowls, etc., ready for me to begin.
As messy as my actual life has become, the kitchen is one of the places I have some semblance of control, so this part is therapeutic for me. Even if pushing through agonizing cramps isn’t.
“Some things never change.” Liam snorts over my shoulder.
“I don’t know. We’ve been in the kitchen for a full five minutes, and I don’t have brownie batter coating my hair yet, so—” I turn to face him, forgetting that this glorified galley kitchen space is tight. My back hits the counter, leaning distance away from Liam’s chest. “Something’s . . . changed.”
“That’s just because I haven’t found the brownie batter.” Liam’s eyes light, scanning over the eggs, flour, and other baking ingredients. “Is that what we’re making?”
“Oh, no. We’re making a twist on a Charlotte Royale.” I skitter further away to recheck the recipe and give my stammering heart a fighting chance. “Hopefully it’ll have the perfectPinterest eat-your-heart-outvibe.”
I rest my elbows on the counter just as a cramp spasms through my lower abdomen, and I stretch and wince.
“You think maybe you should be resting instead, Peaches?”
“I’m fine. You think you should be resting, though?” I motion to his haggard appearance, the dark circles deepening under his eyes, the stubble growing closer to a beard.
Liam worries his bottom lip, not meeting my concerned consideration. “I’ve just had a few restless nights, nothing to stress over.”
“Great, then we’re both fine, and the sponge is baking and needs to be rolled hot anyway.” I focus back on the recipe. “Let’s see, I made the jam, so I think all that’s left is the buttercream, bavarois, rolling and cooling the sponge, and then assembling it with sprinkles.”
He crosses his arms, pulling the pink frills tight. “Oh, is that all?”
