Page 109 of You Fall First

Hanging out with her and a bunch of friends and family in a movie theater is probably safe. The day won’t be about her and Dutton and me (a dangerously domestic combo). We’ll be surrounded by people who only see the true roles we’re playing:

Uncle. Kid. Caretaker.

Done and done.

Just in case Jo didn’t silence her phone, I’m gonna wait to start a group text about the movie. I’ll hit the kitchen early, make coffee, and prep breakfast before she’s out of bed. Feeding her is the least I can do, considering she’s been taking care of Dutton’s meals all week.

So I throw on a clean T-shirt and joggers, brush my teeth, and creep down the hall, hoping not to wake her. But Jo’s already in the kitchen with Dutton.

He’s in his Woody costume again, and she’s wearing her pajamas from two nights ago. Minus the blanket, since we’re not outside on the porch. From the looks of things, they’re making some kind of batter from scratch. Her hair’s up in a topknot, and her nose is dusted with flour. The sight of her and Dutton hunched over mixing bowls momentarily stuns me.

The tableau is almost too much for my heart to handle. But I have to act normal in front of Dutton. So I draw in a quick breath, square my shoulders, and prepare to suck it up.

“Morning,” I say.

Jo startles, dropping the spatula. “Oh, hey! Did we wake you?”

“I was up.” I rake a hand over my head, suddenly shy about the no-doubt disheveled hair. On the counter, alongside measuring cups and spoons, is a scatter of dry ingredients. There’s also milk, eggs, and butter. For toppings, there are both brown sugar and powdered sugar, plus whipped cream, syrup, and a basket of freshly washed strawberries.

Jo must’ve bought some of the stuff this week, because I sure didn’t have baking soda or baking powder on hand.

Whipped cream, either.

“We’re making waffles!” Dutton crows. He’s plucking the stems off the berries and tossing them into separate bowls.

“So I see.”

Jo brushes the smudge of flour off her nose. And I miss it. “After surviving my sister’s wedding,” she says, “I think we’re required to have lots of recovery carbs today.”

“Obviously.” I stuff my hands in my pockets. “Last night was … fun.”

Her eyes cut to Dutton, then back to me, as if I need a reminder that he’s sitting right there, listening. “Yes. And I think we accomplished our goals.”

“Goals?”

“Well, for one thing, Landry got married.”

“Right. Yes.” I bob my head. “Good goal. Big one.”

“And then you and I had several … effective interactions with the caterer.”

“Chef.”

“Exactly.” She meets my gaze and blinks, and I can practically feel her in my arms again, kissing her with all I had. Yes, that performance was strictly for Oliver’s benefit. But for me, it felt like more.

Does she feel more?

“But we still have one more interaction to go.” She looks down at the batter. “With the chef. If you’re up for it.”

“Are you kidding? I love the chef.”

She smirks. “You do?”

“I mean, I love fundraisers.”

She gives the batter a stir. “Same.”

“Do you think one more interaction will be enough?” The air sticks in my lungs as I wait for her to answer. Maybe she’s got a reason to continue our charade. One logical excuse that makes sense but also forces us together.