Page 12 of Wrong Number, Right Single Dad
“Yeah, Daddy.” I smirk. “No peeking.”
He rests a hip against the counter and gives me a pointed look. “I’ve been gone forty-eight hours.”
“Technically, it’s more like sixty. You left Friday night and it’s Monday morning.”
“Okay.” He rolls his eyes. “I’ve been gone fifty-nine and a half hours.”
“Thank you.”
“And in that time, you’ve K-I-L-L-E-D one pet, bought two, and now you’re both concocting more surprises.”
“Well, yeah.” I wrinkle my nose. “Though I’m not really sure I can take credit for what happened to Mr. Gold III. It sounds like the two of you have your own little streak going on with that.”
“Just please tell me the other surprises you have in store don’t involve any more animals living or dead.”
“That depends.”
“Oh, Jesus. On what?”
“Do you consider eggs and bacon animals or food?”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You’re making bacon and eggs.”
“I’m making bacon and French toast,” I correct, moving to the stove, which has a pan that’s now properly heated. “I know French toast wasn’t on your list of approved meals, but I thought—” I turn to grab the batter-soaked brioche and come face to face with his chest.
I gulp.
“You thought?” he prompts.
“I thought you wouldn’t mind if I went off script.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Good.” I sigh, surprised by how much tension I felt in this moment. “I’d hate to ruin everything now that we’re in the home stretch by making forbidden food.”
“French toast isn’t forbidden.”
“But it wasn’t on your list.”
He leans toward me. “There’s a good reason for that.”
“Which is?”
Our faces are close. So close I can see the specks of gold in his hazel eyes. Close enough I can feel his breath on my lips.
A shiver of anticipation runs down my spine. I rub my lips together again.
“The reason,” he says, “is that I don’t know how to make it.”
“Oh.” I blink. “Well, we can change that.”
“We can?”
“My mom taught me.” I push past him to reach the ingredients. “Fortunately for us both, she was a great teacher. And now, I can teach you.”
“Show me your ways.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’m not sure if there’s more powdered sugar on the French toast or on the front of Jared’s flannel shirt.
