Grant clears his throat, raising his hand. “Guilty.”
I blush and sip my wine. “You should be proud.”
He looks at Marlow like the sun set and rose with her. “Every day.”
Marlow groans, dramatic. “Okay, enough of that! Who wants dessert?”
“I’ll take some!” I say quickly.
“Daddy made his famous peach cobbler!” she announces proudly, running off to the kitchen.
“Daddy?” I glance at Grant, eyebrows raised, and we both lose it—snickering at the accidental nickname. But I don’t miss the way he bites his bottom lip when I say it. Like he’s thinking about things we definitely shouldn’t be thinking about with his daughter in the next room.
“I mean, you? You made peach cobbler?” I ask, trying to steer my brain back to safer grounds.
He nods, very proud of himself. “From scratch.”
I laugh. “I don’t believe it. How didyoulearn to make peach cobbler?”
He raises a brow. “Why are you asking like that?” He leans in, “is it because I’m white?”
I gasp then laugh. “It is absolutely because you’re white! Now spill! Who taught you to make peach cobbler from scratch?”
He laughs, then shrugs. “When you’re a single dad, you’d be surprised how many women offer to cook for you, take over your life. I had nannies to help with the heavier lifting, but I figured I’d get more out of learning some of the other things myself. Cooking. Doing Low’s hair. Stuff that actually matters.”
“I see,” I say, biting back a reaction that’s equal parts impressed and aroused.
It’s not fair. Nothing about this is fair.
Marlow proudly brings in a still-warm pan of peach cobbler and a tub of whipped topping, but halfway to the table, she pauses. Her face goes a little gray.
“Marlow? You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, honey. You don’t look so good,” Grant says, standing.
And then it happens.
A sound. A very small, but very undeniable sound.
She freezes. One hand over her mouth, the other over her stomach. “Oh God.”
Grant’s eyes go wide. “Honey?”
I lean in, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You wanna lie down?”
Another fart. This one slightly more confident.
“Umm. Uhh. I’ll be back,” she says, and darts down the hallway.
The second she’s out of sight, it’s like the dam breaks.
We both burst into laughter. Full-bodied, can’t-breathe, wipe-your-eyes kind of laughter.
It only takes a few more seconds before the laughter fades into silence—and the realization settles in like smoke.
We’ve been left alone.
Grant
