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Rainey laughs. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Have you guys told your parents yet?” Devyn asks.
Brody shakes his head. “We’ve told hers but not mine.”
I shift in his direction. “Why not?”
“Because he’s scared of his mommy,” Rainey offers.
Brody flashes her a glare. “I’m not scared.”
“Yes, you are,” she insists.
He throws his hands up. “Okay, fine. I’m afraid of her. That woman is terrifying when she wants to be.”
Everyone at the table gives Brody shit for that one. Except me, because I can’t stop wondering what she’d do if she found out that I secretly married her daughter.
“Do you really think she’d freak out?” Riley asks.
Brody finishes chewing. “Once I tell her that we’re waiting to get married until after the baby’s born, yeah, I do. She’s so fuc...uh, fudging traditional sometimes.”
I smirk at his near slip-up. “She’s bound to find out soon enough. You’re better off just telling her before Rainey starts showing.”
“Nuh uh,” Brody replies. “To be honest, I’m kind of hoping that Charlee or my dad will do something monumentally stupid. She’d be so focused on that, that it would take the heat off of us. The odds of that happening though are slim to none.”
Eh...I’d say those odds are much better than you think.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHARLEE
My mother once told me, “The simpler the dish, the more obvious the mistake.” I didn’t really understand it at the time, but as I grew older and more experienced in the kitchen, it sank in. Take eggs for example. There are countless ways to prepare them. Scrambled, fried, poached, boiled, so on and so forth. Whatever your choice, your cooking skills—or lack thereof—will be painfully obvious. If you forget that an omelet finishes cooking on the plate, it will be overdone. If you don’t position the spatula just right when flipping a fried egg, the yolk will break. If you skip the ice bath after removing a hard-boiled egg from the pot, the fluffy yellow center will be circled with gray. Details matter. Presentation matters. The smallest action—or inaction—can make a huge difference on the final outcome.
That last part is what I’m hyper focused on each and every time I step foot into a kitchen. It’s why I do what I do so well. As I garnish each frittata wedge with some arugula and freshly grated parmesan, I step back to admire my handiwork.
“Perfetto.”
“You’re welcome to stay over anytime if I wake up to this every morning. Especially if you’re half naked and speaking in Italian.”
I jump a little as Drew startles me. “Shit! Why do you always sneak up on me?”
His laughter rumbles in my ear as he presses his chest to my back and wraps his strong arms around me. “Are you fluent?”
“Nah. I like to say I speak Italian-ish. Growing up, my mom often mixed Italian and English into the same sentence—still does, actually—so I learned what I know from reading the context.”
“Well, it’s sexy as hell.” He pauses a moment. “That food looks almost as delicious as you. What is it?”
“A frittata.” I stab the eggs with a fork and turn around to feed him a piece. “Your fridge was surprisingly well stocked.”
He gives me a crooked smile. “I like to eat.”
I chuckle. “So I’ve noticed.”
The last time I woke up next to Drew, I was hungover and in shock so I never got to appreciate how adorable he is first thing in the morning with his rumpled boxers, tousled hair, and sleepy lids. As his lips wrap around the tines, my skin tingles, remembering how that mouth felt floating over my bare skin last night. Drew chews slowly, looking at me as if he can read my mind. His gaze is filled with so much heat that I drop the fork the moment he swallows and lunge for him. He lifts me with no hesitation and pulls my legs around his waist as he carries me out of the kitchen.
He breaks away from my mouth. “The eggs are incredible but I’d rather eat you for breakfast.”
My eyes roll back as he bites the delicate skin where my neck meets my shoulder. “Fuck the eggs.”
