Page 40 of The Overtime Kiss

“The team nutritionist has talked about ultra-processed food lately. It’s the new smoking, isn’t it?”

I give a little shrug. I don’t want to be judgy about food choices. But he sounds like he’s on the same page as me. “Personally, I like food made from stuff I canmostlypronounce.”

“Agree, but one issue—I can pronounce romanesco, but I don’t want to eat it,” he says dryly.

“I promise I won’t pick that up, then,” I say, glad we’re on the same page about what to buy. Then I pause before adding, “Is broccolini on your no list too?”

“What even is broccolini?” he asks, like how does that vegetable have the audacity to exist?

With a smile, I answer, “It’s a mix between broccoli and Chinese broccoli.”

“Okay, fine, that makes sense. But riddle me this—why is broccoli so hard to spell? I never get it right on the first try.”

“I never get rhythm right on the first try,” I say.

“Or accommodate,” he adds.

I lift a finger, feeling a little zing ofaha. “It’s the double ‘C’ for me. It should be abolished from the English language.”

“Yes, and broccoflower should be abolished from grocery store aisles,” he adds.

“So you want to nix double Cs and designer veggies?”

He adopts a pensive look, then says, “Sounds about right.”

“I’ll work on the first, though it might take some time, but I can definitely promise not to bring home fancy veggies,” I say, adding a dramatic hand-over-the-heart gesture.

His gaze drifts to my hand and lingers there for a few seconds before he snaps his eyes back up. “We’re on the same page, then,” he says. “And I’ll send you a list of acceptable veggies.”

List. I get a little excited over that word.

“Acceptable has a double C,” I point out, so I don’t let on how much I crave order.

His lips quirk. “You know…it does. Maybe we should play Scrabble. Though I think I suck at it,” he says, and that thought is entirely too tempting, whether he’s bad at it or not. Ican already picture us laughing, ribbing each other over playing easy words like “cat” and “dog” instead of tough ones like, say, “broccoli.”

“Maybe,” I say instead, keeping it open.

Tyler taps his phone and sets it down on the blue countertop again. “And the list is sent.”

Yay rules.

“Awesome, thank you. Would you like me to cook too?” I ask.

His brow scrunches as he weighs the question. “I like to cook for my kids,” he says, and my heart squeezes a little. It’s sweet how he wants to be a super dad and set a good example.

“Got it. Do you want to give me the other instructions? Tell me what to do.”

His hazel eyes darken, then almost glimmer. His jaw ticks.

I replay what I just said, and oh shit. It sounds like I’m asking for instructions in bed. Like I did that night at the hotel. “For the kids. To pick them up at school. Since I’m picking them up,” I add quickly, perhaps over-clarifying.

Note to self:The ramblings must cease.

“I knew what you meant,” he says, then moves closer to the counter, grabbing his phone from it again. “I’ll send you the address.”

I reach for mine, but as I do, my arm brushes his.

My breath hitches even though the contact is brief and accidental.

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