Page 72 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

Then close it.

Because honestly? Fair. I can cook, but he doesn’t know that yet.

“What are we ordering?” I ask instead.

He starts listing options with the ease of a man who clearly has this system down. A local Italian place. Thai. A steakhouse that apparently delivers, because of course it does. Something Mediterranean. Then Japanese.

Every option sounds expensive enough to make my bank account start crying.

“Pick one,” he says.

“This feels like a trap.”

“It isn’t.”

I hesitate. “Italian?”

He nods once and starts typing.

There’s a strangely domestic feel about it.

About standing in the kitchen while he orders dinner like this is normal, like we’ve done it a hundred times, like I haven’t spent most of the day mentally rehearsing how to remain appropriately detached from a man whose entire existence seems designed to test that plan.

“Do you drink wine?” he asks without looking up.

I stare at him. “That feels like another trap.”

His mouth shifts. “It’s a simple question.”

“Yes,” I say carefully. “Sometimes.”

“Red or white?”

“Red.”

He nods and adds something to the order.

I should object.

I should say I don’t need him buying me wine on top of literally handing me a credit card like I’m a trusted member of his inner circle and not the woman he had a wildly unprofessional encounter with at thirty thousand feet.

Instead, I say, “You know this is dangerously close to hospitality.”

“You live here.”

Oliver appears in the doorway then, saving me from having to respond. “Are we eating?”

“Yes,” Ethan says.

“What are we having?”

“Italian.”

Oliver thinks this over. “With pizza?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”