Page 189 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

I blink at it. “Should I ask?”

“It was cargo.”

“Of course it was.”

“Now it’s a rescue vehicle.”

“Natural career progression.”

He runs straight into me, wrapping his arms around my waist. My heart does that stupid soft thing again, and I rest one hand gently on the back of his head.

“Did you have fun?” I ask.

“Yes. Dad was working but also playing.”

“That sounds like your dad.”

Ethan working on a weekend isn’t surprising. Ethan working through a crisis is even less surprising. The man probably alphabetizes emergencies.

Still, there’s been a tension around him lately. Around the gala, the AI demo. Around Bryce, though I prefer not to let that name float around in my head too long unless I want my blood pressure to reenact a fireworks display.

“Is he still in there?”

Oliver nods. “Dad’s still looking at stuff.”

“Stuff?”

“Grown-up plane stuff.”

“Ah. The most suspicious kind.”

Oliver nods solemnly, as if I’ve said something wise.

“Okay, Captain Airport Authority,” I say, clapping my hands once. “What’s the evening plan?”

“Can we make spaghetti?”

“Are we eating it or using it for runway lighting?”

“Eating it.”

“Good clarification.”

The next hour is loud, messy, and exactly what I need.

Oliver helps me make dinner, which means he stirs the sauce with the intense concentration of a surgeon and drops three noodles on the floor that Captain immediately identifies as tribute. I make him wash his hands twice because somehow marinara ends up on his elbow, and he informs me this is “a chef problem.”

We eat at the kitchen island because the dining table is apparently still partially under aviation control, and Oliver tells me every detail of his day, including Captain’s demotion from security after “unauthorized licking” and Ethan using a serious voice on the phone.

“What kind of serious voice?” I ask, twirling spaghetti around Oliver’s fork because he has decided noodles are “slippery snakes” and therefore suspicious.

“The quiet one.”

My hand stills for half a second. I don’t like that. It makes me want to knock on whatever door he’s shut behind and annoy him until he opens it. Which may not be healthy, but honestly, neither is pretending rich men with control issues can solve their emotional problems by staring out windows.

“I see,” I say.

Oliver doesn’t notice my shift. He's too busy trying to convince Captain, from across the room, that dogs cannot have garlic.