Page 85 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

I scratch behind his ears absently and lower my voice to a whisper only he can hear. “Also, your owner is still a problem.”

Captain blinks.

“I know. He’s very handsome in that deeply serious, emotionally constipated kind of way. It’s a whole thing.”

“Who’s a problem?” Oliver asks.

I nearly choke on air. “No one,” I say quickly. “Boring adult topic. Taxes.”

He goes back to the plane immediately, because nothing repels a child faster than the suggestion of tax conversation.

Bless.

By lunchtime, we’re both slightly stir crazy, which means I make the executive decision to take him over to Brewed Awakening.

This is partly because he likes the toy corner, partly because I desperately need caffeine, and partly because there's something weirdly comforting about having somewhere to go now. Somewhere that isn't this beautiful penthouse full of tension, memory, and one silver fox I'm trying very hard not to think about.

Chicago's still new under my skin.

But it’s starting to feel less like a place I got stranded in and more like a place I might actually belong.

That thought's nice.

Dangerous, but nice.

Brewed Awakening is warm when we walk in, all exposed brick, soft music, and the smell of coffee so good it could probably heal minor psychological damage. The windows are bright with thin afternoon light, and the whole place has that easy hum of people doing city things. Laptop people. Meeting people. Someone in the corner definitely pretending to write a screenplay. An older couple sharing cake.

Normal life.

The kind I haven’t felt part of in a while.

Sophie spots me before I’ve even fully stepped inside. “Well, if it isn’t airport heartbreak in a cute cardigan.”

I laugh before I can stop myself. “Wow. You’re always going to refer to me in that way, aren’t you?”

She grins, already reaching for a cup. “The usual for him?”

Oliver stands a little taller. “Grilled cheese.”

Sophie nods. “And hot chocolate at a temperature that won’t cause nanny panic.”

I put a hand to my chest. “You know me.”

“I know women in charge of small children,” she says. “You all have the same haunted eyes.”

That’s fair, honestly.

A few minutes later, Oliver’s happily installed at a small table with his grilled cheese, Captain at my feet, and I’m leaning against the counter while Sophie wipes down the espresso machine and gives me one of those looks women give each other when they’ve decided you’re getting adopted, whether you like it or not.

“So,” she says. “How’s billionaire babysitting?”

I nearly snort coffee. “I’m sorry, is that what we’re calling it?”

“If the custom loafers fit.”

“It’s nannying,” I say, though weakly.

“Mm hm.”