Page 124 of From Air

“Fantasy?”

“No.”

“Romance?”

“No.”

I sigh. “I give up.”

He lowers the book. “Have you read a lot of books about World War II generals? What are the chances of you being able to spoil the ending?”

“I’ve read zero books about World War II generals. Nice to see you too.”

Fitz slides a receipt into his book and sets it aside. “Did you have a good day?” He laces his fingers together on the counter and offers a goofy, toothy grin.

“It was good. Thanks for asking. Yours?”

“Prescribed burning. It was all mind-blowingly titillating.”

“You’re a little frisky tonight. Frisky Fitz. Why is that? Does reading about World War II generals get you hard?”

“What makes you think I’m hard?”

I set down my soup spoon and shrug off my shirt.

“Jesus. What are you ...” He picks up his phone and heads up the stairs. “Will could have been on the sofa. Or young children could have been watching.”

I giggle, returning to my chili in my soft pink bra and black pants. “Whose children?”

“Sometimes I mentor young firefighters.”

“Liar.”

He shuts his bedroom door. “And I bring them to the house for my special chili instead of that crap out of a can you’re eating. And why is that? How is it that you make sourdough bread from scratch but eat chili out of a can?”

“We’re not done talking about your imaginary mentoring, but if you must know, I’m not a cook. I’m a baker, like my mom was a baker, not a cook. That’s what makes us a good match. I bake, and you cook.”

He hums, but I’m unsure if he’s agreeing with me or giving me the hum that’s his verbal eye roll.

“Speaking of my mom. Today, I came across some information that makes me wonder if I was adopted.”

“Sorry, you’re going to have to put your shirt back on, and I’m going to have to stop stroking my dick if we’re going to have a serious conversation.”

I spit out my chili the second the spoon reaches my lips. “Stop.” Wiping my mouth, I laugh. And I also thread my arms through my shirt and pull it over my head.

He brushes his hand on his shirt like he’s wiping it off.

I shake my head. “Only the king of SPAM would masturbate to a can of soup.”

Fitz chuckles. “As you were saying. You think you were adopted?”

I hate this line. I want to share my life with Fitz, but there is a hard line that I’m scared out of my mind to cross. If he knew about Dwight, what would he do? My chest aches as I try to imagine it.

“Since my parents are dead, does it matter? However, the familial health history might be important if I have kids someday.” Instant regret punches me the second I put a period in that sentence.

Fitz’s crestfallen face says it all.

I sigh, setting my spoon in my half-empty bowl of soup. “I can’t keep pretending that I don’t want to leave that door open. Tiptoeing around you on this subject is exhausting.”

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