Page 107 of I Knead You Tonight

He grins, only it doesn’t look natural. It looks too much like anI’m onto youkind of grin. Ominous.

If I didn’t know any better, it almost sounds like Simon knows there’s something going on between us.

But that can’t be the case. We’ve been careful.

I mean, there was that one time Winston snuck a kiss on my cheek in the hallway and I ripped him a new one, but nobody saw us.

They couldn’t have.

“If you need someone to help you look at culinary programs, I’d be happy to help.”

I blink up at him. “Huh?”

“You know, for the certifications we were discussing,” he explains. “Geez, kid, you lose your head that fast?”

“Sorry.” I give myself a shake. “Brain is all jumbled.”

“Right. Well, I don’t want to distract you too much. We only have thirty minutes until open and there’s still plenty to do. Just think about what I said.”

What he said? Which part?

The one where he implied that he knows there’s something happening with me and his son, or the one where he offered to help me create the future I want for myself?

Either way, they both feel earth-shattering.

* * *

It’s eveningby the time I drag my tired feet out the door of Slice. I am in no mood to make dinner when I get home, so I stop at Grab ’N’ Grocery for something quick and satisfying.

The lights are turned down low when I finally push open the door of Winston’s house.

“H-Hello?” I call out cautiously.

“In the kitchen,” Winston answers back.

The weird just keeps on coming, because the kitchen isn’t a place where he typically hangs out. In fact, I’m not so sure he even used it before I started living here.

I kick off my shoes, setting my purse down on the table by the door, and pad into the kitchen, bracing myself for something strange because it seems to be the turn this night has taken.

When I cross the threshold, I’m glued into place.

Winston’s sitting at the dinner table, Riker beside him strapped into his boppy chair, looking like a mini adult sitting on his own as he’s fed some disgusting-looking green mush.

From the looks of it, Riker isn’t the only one getting fed.

The placemats, which I’m sure Winston had to rip the tags off of, are adorned with heaping plates of pasta.

It’s nothing over the top. There are no candles or flowers or anything romantic.

It’s simply dinner.

“What’s all this?”

“Food.”

“Yes, I can see that,” I say, making my way to the refrigerator to stash my goods from the store. “But why? What’s the occasion?”

“There isn’t one. I knew today was your last day pulling doubles and I figured you wouldn’t be too pumped to make dinner tonight, so I took charge and made something.”

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