“Just what?”
She sighs. “I just don’t want things to be uneven. And I’m used to being on my own.”
I take her hand. “But you don’t have to do it on your own any longer, Harp. We’re in this together.”
“Yeah,” she says. “Which brings me back to finances. I know you keep insisting that you don’t want me to pay rent or contribute to the mortgage, but maybe I can pay for insurance and utilities? And groceries—I mean, I think you’ve bought every meal that we’ve eaten out.”
“Like I said?—”
“You’re old-fashioned that way.” She turns her hand over in mine, squeezes. “I know and I appreciate the sentiment, that you want to look after me, but I need to pull my own weight.”
“Why?”
She frowns again. “Why?”
“Yeah,” I say. “We’re together. I like taking care of the people I consider family—and you’re carrying my baby, so you’re definitely family.” Her expression softens. “Plus, you’re doing all the hard work, mama.”
“How do you see that?”
“You’re growing our little boy.”
“I thought we agreed it’s a girl.”
I nudge her apple turnover closer, silently encouraging her to eat.
Something that’s apparently obvious because she rolls her eyes…but picks up the turnover.
“Should we make a bet?”
“About our baby’s gender?” she asks through a bite of turnover.
Fuck, she’s cute.
I lean over, wipe away a crumb from the corner of her mouth. “Yup. If I’m right, I get oatmeal raisin cookies.”
Her nose wrinkles. “You’ve barely finished the last batch I made you.”
A shrug. “They’re delicious.”
“I mean, I know my oatmeal raisin cookies are delicious, but you could expand your options. Try something like white chocolate macadamia with cranberries?—”
I make a mental note because she’s mentioned that variety of cookie a handful of times over the last few days.
“—or chocolate chip, or peanut butter, or…basically any type of cookie that’s not a fake.”
“How are oatmeal raisin cookies fake?”
“Haven’t you ever picked up one up thinking it was a chocolate chip cookie?” She shudders. “Then you bite in and instead of getting all that yummy chocolaty goodness, you get chewy, flavorless raisins.”
I chuckle and take a sip of my smoothie.
Talk about flavorless.
Fine, it’s not flavorless. It’s just not the flavor I want.
“No,” I say as I chase it with a bite of cinnamon roll. “Can’t say that’s ever happened to me.”
She scowls. “Because you’d be happy to have the oatmeal raisin.”
