Page 119 of Oliver
“You insisted, Pari,” I reminded her with an eyeroll. “Said you wanted me to bond with my future godchild.”
“Right.” She patted her barely rounded belly fondly. “I forgot about that.”
Oliver kissed my cheek, then turned to Parisa. "Why don’t you take a break? Go boss Emmet around from the couch. His gift composition under the tree is lacking."
Parisa raised an eyebrow, but Darryl ushered her away with a chuckle, the couple disappearing behind the wall separating the rooms.
“That wall needs to go, like, yesterday,” I muttered before pulling out an apron.
The kitchen was my favorite room in the house, but I hated the separation from the family room.
“Someday, when we have our own home, it’ll be everything you’ve ever dreamed of,” Oliver promised.
I smiled at him warmly, then pulled ingredients from the refrigerator, mentally running through the breakfast menu. Cinnamon rolls were already proofing in the warming drawer. I still needed to make the pancakes, fry the omelets, and?—
Warm hands slid around my waist, and Oliver pressed against my back, his lips finding that sensitive spot just below my ear.
"Need help?" he murmured.
"I need you to stop distracting me," I said, trying and failing to sound stern as his teeth nipped at my earlobe.
"But you're so distractable," he countered, his hands slipping beneath my sweater to trace patterns on my bare skin. "And so beautiful when you're flustered."
I turned in his arms, brandishing a wooden spoon like a weapon. "Focus, Beck. We have guests arriving in thirty minutes."
"I am focused." His gaze dropped to my lips, his intent clear. "Very focused."
"On breakfast," I clarified, tapping his chest with the spoon. "Get me the eggs from the fridge, please."
He sighed dramatically but complied. We moved around each other in comfortable synchronicity, the routine familiar after months of cohabitation.
"Do you know the statistical improbability of us being here right now?" Oliver asked, whisking the pancake batter vigorously. "The odds of you accidentally finding me on Foxy’s site after ten years, of me accepting your booking, of everything that had to align perfectly for us to end up in this kitchen together?—"
"Were stacked against us to an astronomical height," I finished for him, stealing a quick kiss as I passed. "And yet, here we are."
"Defying probability," he agreed, a smile softening his features. "My favorite kind of anomaly."
"If you two are done being sickeningly adorable," Emmet called from the doorway. "Can I remind you that your parents will be here in about?—"
The doorbell rang, cutting him off.
"Shit," I muttered, glancing at the clock. 8:37. Of course, they were early.
"Language, Lumina," Oliver teased, setting down his bowl to wipe a smudge of flour from my cheek. "What would your mother say?"
"Nothing good," I replied, smoothing down my sweater and taking a deep breath. "Okay, show time."
My parents bustled in with their usual energy. Mom headed straight for the kitchen with— “Just a few extra dishes I'd thrown together."
It was, in fact, a full Persian breakfast spread that had probably taken her hours.
Dad enveloped me in a bear hug, then pulled Oliver into it, wrapping us both in his arms.
"Something smells wonderful," Mom said, eyeing my half-prepared breakfast with a critical eye. "Though you could use more turmeric in those eggs. And some tamarind in the pancake batter. Let me show you."
Just like that, I was demoted to sous chef in my own kitchen, watching as my mother took command.
"We should finish setting up the string lights in the living room," Oliver offered my father, who hurried to accept the excuse to leave the kitchen.
