Page 157 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

“Yes.”

“Red, white, specific labels, weird opinions?”

“Probably all of the above.”

“Excellent. Nightmare category.”

Captain reappears then and deposits a slobbery plush plane at Addy’s feet.

She glances down. “Thank you. Your contribution is noted.”

He wags with the satisfaction of a man who believes he has solved dinner.

I look toward the living room as Oliver’s voice carries faintly down the hall explaining, to no one in particular, that there are “strict air traffic rules” in place.

Addy hears it too and smiles without looking up.

Then she turns back to the list and says, “Do you want me to cook or should we order in and plate it like suspiciously elegant frauds?”

I consider both options. “You can cook for a dinner party?”

Her head comes up so fast I almost regret the question. “Yes, I am, in fact, a fully functional adult.”

“I didn’t say otherwise.”

“You implied it with your face.”

“I don’t know what expression you mean.”

“The one that suggests you thought I might accidentally poison your guests with enthusiasm.”

“That wasn't my concern.”

“What was?”

I hold her gaze. “That you’d attempt something unnecessarily ambitious out of spite.”

She stares at me for one beat.

Then she laughs so hard she has to set the pen down.

“That,” she says, “is offensively specific.”

“Was I wrong?”

She presses a hand briefly to her chest as if wounded. “Not entirely.”

“Then I rest my case.”

Her eyes are still bright when she says, “Fine. No culinary vengeance. We’ll do something good and achievable.”

“We.”

She points at me again. “You live here too, billionaire. You don’t get to hand me social logistics and then stand back looking structurally handsome while I do all the work.”

I say nothing, because ‘structurally handsome’ isn't a phrase I'm prepared to process responsibly.

She seems to realize what she’s said a second too late, because her mouth parts slightly, then closes.