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Lachlan: I’m bringing quinoa and turnips.
I laughed out loud before texting back.
Laurel: Gross. I can make dinner.
I paused, thinking. Then, before my courage deserted me, I added, “But you can join us.”
Lachlan: 6:30 okay? I start work at 8.
Laurel: Sounds good to me.
Lachlan: Temp?
My thermometer beeped and I checked it. I cringed. Seriously? A hundred and two? With a disgusted sigh, I texted him back.
Laurel: I’ll go take the stuff.
Lachlan: I’m changing your antibiotics. Be there in a couple hours.
I felt my face glow like one of the magic unicorns on Calla’s show. What possessed this man to give a single flying fart about me was beyond me, but having someone care—genuinely care—about my well-being was making me drunk on giddy juice.
And then I realized I’d said I’d make dinner.Shit.Also he was coming over and I looked homeless.Double shit.
“Hey Calla, are you okay if mommy goes to shower really quick?”
“Uh-huh,” Calla said, her starry eyes on the swish of magic on the screen.
“Okay, fast shower,” I said. I hopped off the couch, but then I skidded to a halt at the island. Which pill was I supposed to start with for a fever? I decided on Ibuprofen, swallowed them with a swig of water from my water bottle, and then dove into the shower.
An hour later, I was clean, shaved, blow dried, and fresh-faced with a swish of mascara for good measure. Except, my hair had decided it wanted to be frizzy again, so I braided it and dithered over what to wear. I decided to go with an over-sized, off-the-shoulder graphic tee that showed off a little hint of the black lace bralette underneath. I always wore leggings. No getting around that. I pulled on a pair of super fluffy, comfortable socks because I wanted to, and then I slid into the kitchen.
Dinner.
I looked around the kitchen, wondering what Lachlan would eat without poking fun at my eating habits again. This was the most free time I’d had in months, and usually, we were so busy, I was lucky if I could toast a couple chicken patties for chicken burgers. I did try to add canned vegetables with it, but chips were kind of vegetables, right?
Maybe I did need to examine my diet.
No time for that now, though. I decided I could probably manage to make baked potatoes and chili. Lachlan had bought a pretty good assortment of fresh vegetables, and while I preheated the oven for the baked potatoes, I scrolled through recipes on my phone. Most of them needed four hours at least. Or a pressure cooker. I had one pot and a frying pan the size of a dinner plate.
Pursing my lips, I looked at the list of ingredients. I had most of them.
Meh, good enough.
While I diced and sliced, Calla came to join me in the kitchen, hopping up on a bar stool to watch me with chattering interest. I explained what I was doing and why, and she helped me peel the garlic.
I burned the meat a little. And the carrots were definitely hard. And I’d spilled too much chili powder into it. But by the time the knock sounded on the front door, I had baked potatoes, chili, and steamed broccoli set on the table.
And I was completely out of breath and flustered.
I smoothed the straying curls away from my face, wiped at a chili stain on my blue shirt, and sucked in a breath through my nose. When I opened the door, I almost fell over sideways.
Lachlan stood there dressed in a white button-down shirt tucked into black slacks. He’d folded his sleeves up to his elbows, and he had a brown paper bag of groceries in the curve of one arm. He looked me up and down with a slowly widening crook of his mouth. “Hey there.”
“Hey,” I said, trying to moderate my breath so I didn’t sound like I’d been running.
Behind me, Calla shouted, “Mom made you real dinner!”
Heat climbed up my neck and I stepped aside. “I mean, barely. No big deal.”
