Page 62 of Falling Back to You

Have you ever seen a cat beg? Cutest thing ever. I might be more of a cat person than a dog person. Unless that cat was Jerry the menace. Not a fan. I had yet to come face-to-face with him, but I knew it was only a matter of time. Lucky me.

Just before five, heavy steps tramped up the porch and loud knocking echoed through the cottage.

“How was she?” Cal asked the minute I opened the door.

“Hello to you too,” I teased, wiping my damp hands on the towel draped over my shoulder, and he grinned sheepishly. “She’s great. Come on in.”

“Daddy!” Khia squealed but didn’t leave her perch on the couch as she paged through a book, having abandoned the puzzle.

“You have a good day, Lovebug?”

“Yup! We made cookies! And Miss Noelle let me help with dinner.”

When Cal glanced at me, my cheeks flushed. “I thought it was one less thing for you to have to worry about.”

“Thanks.” And the grateful look he gave me set my pulse racing.

I gestured to the kitchen. “Do you want to join me?”

He hesitated.

Why did I offer? That’s just awkward. “Or you know what, you probably have things to do. You can take it to go and return my pots later,” I babbled, reaching for the kitchen towel to wrap the dishes up in.

Cal touched my arm, stilling my words. “We’ll stay,” he said roughly. “I’d like to stay.”

Do not read into that. I smiled tentatively. “Okay. Wash up.”

Wow, that came out way too easily. It was so . . . domestic. Like the thirteen years of hurt and misunderstandings didn’t stand in our way. But they did and I needed to remember that.

I’d always been a good cook—one thing my mom had insisted on—and the roasted garlic-parmesan potatoes with jerk chicken and salad were good if I said so myself, and Cal seemed to approve, groaning after one bite.

“I’ve missed your cooking,” he said. “I’ve got nothing on you.”

My face heated with pleasure. The words shouldn’t mean so much, but they did.

Cal listened patiently to Khia prattle like a magpie. He was so good with her, and she clearly adored him. That little girl was his world, and very, very loved.

And while he was wholly absorbed in the conversation, he kept watching me out of the corner of his eye.

Do I have food on my face? I discreetly dabbed my chin with a napkin, and Cal’s dimple popped with a smirk.

When Khia reached down to pet Mrs. Pickles, Cal leaned over, shoulder brushing mine. “You don’t have food on your face,” he said in a low undertone. “But are you okay? You look exhausted.” Gently, he brushed a thumb under my eye.

I was exhausted. But I forced a smile, trying to ignore the flutter in my stomach at his touch. “You never tell a woman that.”

Cal’s expression remained serious, not taking the bait. “Elle, was today too much?”

“No!” I shot a glance at Khia. She was still preoccupied with her cat. “She was great. I’m just . . . having an off day.” Talk about an understatement.

He nodded slowly, skeptical, like he expected I wasn’t telling him the whole of it. “All right. But I’m on dish duty.”

“Cal—”

“Nope.” He held up a hand. “The cook never cleans.”

“My house, my rules.”

Cal smirked. “Technically it’s still my house . . .”