Page 60 of Stuck with my Guarded MVP
Her arm barely in the frame. Sophie mid–jazz hands. Emma smirking. Claire grinning like she'd already surrendered to the mess.
I tapped the screen once. Just to make the photo bigger. My thumb traced the edge of the phone. When the bus finally pulled into the loading zone under the arena, I locked the screen and tucked it into my jacket.
In the elevator, I caught my reflection in the mirror. Not the same reflection I’d seen days ago, when we were leaving, to shop together. This reflection was just me. The doors opened. I unlocked the apartment and stepped in.
Claire. She was mid-step, carrying her mug toward the kitchen. She looked up, surprised.
"Hi," I said and leaned in and kissed her cheek.
What am I doing?
She blinked, eyes wide for a beat.
Sandalwood?
Whatever it was, I loved the way she smelled.
We were standing inches apart.
I should probably drop my hand from her shoulder.
“Congrats on the road trip.”
“Thanks.” My voice came out lower than usual.
I let my hand fall.
She smiled. “It’s good to have you back.”
“It’s good to be back.”
And to see you.
I stepped aside to roll my bag in behind me.
I took off my shoes by the bench, hauled my bag to the bedroom, and dumped the laundry straight into the hamper. Hung up my traveling clothes and tugged my hoodie over my head. Then headed for the kitchen.
First stop: the fridge.
Which was nearly empty.
Five days away, and it showed. I scanned the shelves. Some greens hanging on, a few eggs, the remains of a rotisserie chicken I didn’t remember buying.
Time to replenish my culinary arsenal. I grabbed my keys and reusable bags, still half in post-trip mode, and headed out.
After a solid restock run—fridge, pantry, freezer—I came back and unloaded everything onto the counter. I was setting the parsley in a glass of water when I heard Claire coming through the front door open.
She looked like she’d just come from a walk, hair pulled back, cheeks a little pink from the air. She held a familiar white container in one hand.
“I let Brooke have some of the seafood risotto,” she said. “ She says thank you, by the way. And begged me for the recipe.”
I leaned against the counter, drying my hands on a towel. “Yeah, see, that’s the problem. I don’t really have a recipe.”
Claire looked disappointed. “Seriously? She was ready to offer naming rights to her next child in exchange for it.”
I shrugged. “I mean, I have the basics. But I don’t measure. I add things as I go. Taste, adjust. Taste again.”
She sighed, half-smiling. “Brooke’s going to be heartbroken.”
