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I double back to the bakery stand and buy one for Blair. Then I add another for Aspen because I’m not an idiot who wants to explain to my six-year-old why she doesn’t get cake too.

The woman puts them in a small cardboard box, and I make my way back to the truck.

Blair is leaning through the open back door, checking Aspen’s seat belt.

“I buckled her in, but you might want to make sure I did it properly,” she says when she sees me. “I can teach children. That’s about the extent of my expertise.”

I slide the cupcake box behind my seat while she’s distracted, then check Aspen’s buckle.

It’s secure.

Of course it is.

“All good,” I tell Blair as I close the back door.

She climbs into the passenger seat, and we set off toward my house.

Because apparently this not date isn’t over yet.

* * *

The second we walk through the front door, Aspen kicks off her boots and takes off down the hallway.

“Beachy!” she yells.

Blair laughs beside me as I shut the door. “I’m guessing Beachy is important?”

“You have no idea.”

While Blair is distracted watching Aspen disappear, I grab the cupcake box from the truck and hide it in the pantry.

When I return, she’s looking around the living room, taking in the toys tucked into one corner, Aspen’s drawings covering the fridge and the blanket hanging halfway off the couch.

“This is really nice,” she says.

“You sound surprised.”

Blair shrugs, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “I kind of expected a bachelor cave.”

“Rude.”

“Accurate?” Her brows lift.

“Debatable.” I gesture toward the kitchen. “You like spaghetti?”

“Of course.”

“Easy. Sit.” I point to one of the stools at the counter.

“You know, I don’t usually do well with taking orders.” Blair slides onto the stool anyway, watching me with that same cheeky glint in her eyes.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

I pour her a glass of wine and grab myself a soda from the fridge.

“You’re not having one?” she asks.

“One hangover this week was enough.”