Page 50 of Reclaimed

“Okay,” she mumbles then rinses her hands. “Can I see what you got?”

I drop the sponge into the sink and move to the table. “You can sit your cute ass down and watch me unpack what I bought.”

“I can’t help?”

“On a scale of one to ten, how sore are your feet right now?” She doesn’t know it, but I’ve been doing some reading up on pregnant women. Swollen feet, sore backs, and exhaustion are big symptoms I know Isla will play off as normal.

She scrunches her nose. “Like a three.”

I fixate my eyes on hers until her cheeks pink even more.

“Okay, like a seven,” she admits.

I yank out the chair. “Sit.”

She sinks her teeth into her lower lip as she concedes.

“You can take things out of the bag and set them on the table, but I’ll be in charge of putting them away.” I cross the room and roll up my sleeves. “I’m just going to finish this pan first before you go crazy.”

A glance over my shoulder has me discovering her eyeroll.

“I’m not going to go crazy.”

“You’re practically bouncing in your seat.” I find the green sponge in the sink and resume scrubbing her pan. The motion is the perfect outlet for my mood.

The rustle of paper precedes her retort. “Am not. Ooh. Pickles.”

For the first time all day, I laugh. “I’m glad those are a hit.”

“You discovered a craving I didn’t even know I had.”

“Must be some solid intuition.” I rewet my sponge and resume my task. “Did you have a nice time tonight?”

“I did. Your brother’s wives are all really nice and welcoming. I even gained some deep insight.”

My head pops up. “Into me?”

Isla laughs. “Unfortunately, no. We mostly talked about babies. Don’t worry, your deep dark secrets are safe. For now.”

“Good luck finding any. I’m squeaky clean.”

“Like that pan?”

I grunt in response.

A particularly rough spot requires my focus. After two straight minutes of scrubbing, the stubborn stain finally comes free. I rinse and drain the water, happy to help her complete her final task.

“Dishes are done—Mygod, starshine, are you putting ice cream on your pickle?”

She catches a drip on the corner of her mouth with the side of her thumb. “It tastes so good. You should try it.” She addsanother dallop and holds out the pickle like it’s an ice cream cone.

I bite back a gag. “No thanks, babe. It’s all for you.”

“Please?” she pouts.

“Isla, no.”

“Please?” she tries again, this time her lip wobbles. “You’ve shamed me. Now I feel like I’m doing something gross.”

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