Page 181 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

I narrow my eyes. “Is that mine?” He accelerates. “Coward.”

Oliver giggles, which makes the room feel softer. Safer. Then he studies my face with an unsettling amount of focus for someone who still occasionally puts his shirt on backward. “You look weird.”

“Thank you. That’s exactly the affirmation I needed today.”

“Are you sick?”

I shake my head. “Nope.”

He squints.

Children shouldn't be allowed to observe people this closely. It’s invasive.

“I’m just tired,” I say, moving toward the kitchen. “What do you want for breakfast?”

“Pancakes.”

I smile. “Ambitious.”

“With chocolate chips.”

“Negotiator.”

“And airplane shape.”

I stop and look at him. He looks back, completely serious.

“Oliver Strong,” I say, “do I look like a woman who can freehand aircraft pancakes before coffee?”

He considers this. “Maybe after coffee.”

“Smart answer.”

I make regular pancakes because there are limits to my emotional generosity, but I do arrange the chocolate chips into something that might be wings if viewed from the correct angle with a forgiving heart.

Oliver declares them “medium airplane,” which I accept as a professional review.

While sipping my coffee, I spot a note on the counter written in his precise, absurdly attractive handwriting.

Early meeting. Call if you need anything. —E

I trace the edge of the note with my thumb like an idiot. Then immediately stop.

“Gross,” I mutter to myself.

“What’s gross?” Oliver asks around a mouthful of pancake.

“Feelings.”

He nods wisely. “Dad doesn’t like those either.”

That catches me off guard badly enough that I nearly inhale my own oxygen wrong.

“Well,” I say, turning toward the sink, “your dad and I have that in common.”

Which is a lie.

I have feelings. An unreasonable amount of feelings.