Page 46 of One Little Mistake

For a while, I just stand over the crib, unable to tear my eyes away from my son, overwhelmed with relief that I finally get to be near him again.

When I step out of the nursery, the smell of food hits me from the direction of the kitchen. Probably, I should’ve been the one to cook something for Max as a thank-you. Instead, he’s the one standing by the stove.

I hurry to take over, walking into the kitchen and taking in the scene: everything looks spotless, way cleaner than it ever was when I lived here.

It’s so unlike most guys.

Or maybe he has a housekeeper?

“Let me finish cooking,” I offer, stepping closer to him.

He turns around, gives me a heavy once-over, sighs in frustration, then turns back to the stove.

“I grabbed ready-made meals at the store,” he says. “I just need to heat them up. I can manage that much. You need to rest. Go lie down while the baby’s sleeping.”

I wrap my arms around myself, feeling completely out of place. It’s hard to shake the feeling that everything here is foreign to me now. Well, except maybe for that candy dish on the table—that’s mine. And the frying pan on the stove too.

Then it hits me: there’s only one bedroom here.

One bed.

There’s barely any furniture at all, like the owner’s some kind of hardcore minimalist.

“I’ll just crash in the nursery on the floor,” I mumble. “I’ll grab a blanket from the closet.”

“Are you crazy?” Max snaps, spinning around.

He grabs a plate, piles some food onto it, and sets it down on the table with a thud.

“Sit. Eat. Then go to the bedroom and rest,” he says firmly. “I know exactly what the doctor said about your recovery schedule.”

And I obey him without a fight. I nibble on some bland potatoes, poke at the salad, doing everything I can to avoid his gaze.

“Thanks,” I murmur quietly.

I pick up my plate and head toward the sink, planning to wash it.

“I need to feed the baby,” I say. “Where did you put the formula?”

“Top shelf by the fridge,” he answers. “Hang on, I’ll get it for you.”

Max reaches for the cabinet, and as he stretches, his T-shirt rides up slightly, revealing the defined muscles of his abdomen.

I quickly look away before he catches me staring. The guy is seriously built—no point lying to myself. His shoulders are way broader than my Max. He’s tall, fit, and athletic. If only he shaved that beard, so I could actually see his face, not just his eyes.

He fits into this apartment so naturally, feels so right here—way more than my Max ever did.

“Here,” he says, handing me the formula. “But after this, no arguments—you’re going straight to bed, got it?”

He gives me a pointed look, and I nod, not daring to argue. Besides, I feel weak as hell.

“We’ll figure out the next steps tonight,” he adds.

“Thank you,” I breathe out, turning away from him.

I close my eyes, feeling his presence with every part of me—his heavy gaze burning into the back of my head, the quietshuffle of his footsteps across the kitchen, and the strange tension holding us both tight, making it impossible to relax or slip into an easy conversation.

CHAPTER 17

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