If he’d dared to snap his fingers at Seth, he’d probably get flipped off.
“How many cups?” his older boy asked.
“However many you think we need,” she replied, flipping the bacon.
Seth paused, unsure. “What does the recipe say?”
Travis had once mentioned that Seth seemed like his serious little clone. A rule follower, which was hilarious since right now Seth liked to snap rules in half.
“Rule number one of baking,” Heart replied. “Don’t mix up baking powder and baking soda. Two: don’t confuse sugar for flour. But chocolate chips?” She turned to him and streaked a smear of batter on his nose with the rubber scraper, giggling when he wrinkled his face. “Never go by the recipe. You measure that with passion.” She made a fist as if delivering a powerful oratory.
Seth’s brows pulled together. Confused. But his mouth curled up in a smile as he wiped the smear off his nose and licked his finger. “Okay. How about the whole bag?”
“Great minds, kid.” She pointed between their heads, earning a genuine smile. “Pour ’em in. Stevie, start cutting.”
She shifted a pile of cookie cutters to him. Steven set down the phone and picked up dinosaur cookie cutters and began cutting shapes out of a stack of green food-colored pancakes.
Her wrists deftly worked a spatula. Her hair, uncombed, was pinned in a pile with pencils and pens, per usual, as a pretty lock hung down and curled around her cheek. She wore her tie-dyed paleontology shirt, his oversize plaid that was basically hers at this point, tiny pajama shorts, miles of long bare legs, shimmery ankle bracelet. He could tell she was braless. His boys huddled around her and snacked on a colander of berries. Stevie, in his dirty muck boots, in the house, was leaning his head on her arm. Seth in his ripped jeans, split lip and puffy cheek, began flipping the scrambled eggs. Frodo sniffed around their feet, nibbling the scraps that had fallen off the counter. He exhaled with exasperation. His whole floor was going to need a mopping.
Yet Tyler’s heart tightened. She whipped a whisk, turned the bacon out on a plate, and cut the heat to the eggs. For the amount of times she’d lured him into eating out, he’d begun to suspect she couldn’t cook. Yet her multitasking spoke of the opposite. She was at home in a kitchen.
His eyes dipped to her feet. Barefoot in his kitchen. A grin split his lips.
His counters were minefields of seasonings, ingredients, flour dusted on the prep surface. A rolling pin that hadn’t seen the light of day in years was wedged among the mess. He shook his head. He’d given up on straightening every little thing she left out. The messes were oddly comforting, as if his house was finally lived in. Not to mention straightening up after her was a full-time job.
“Think your dad will want one or two?” she asked.
Seth snorted. Steven laughed. “One or two hundred. He eats like a horse.”
She laughed. “We better fill him up, then. When was the last time someone cooked for him?”
“Probably our grandma, before she got sick,” Seth said.
“I made him breakfast on Father’s Day,” Stevie argued.
“You poured cereal into a bowl and used a piece of cardboard for a tray,” Seth scoffed.
“Still counts,” Heather validated.
She was a natural. She said she’d always wanted kids… He had kids. And…they needed a momma. Did she want to inherit another woman’s children?
His momma had taught him and his bros how to cook, how to be men, how to take responsibility. Yet this scene unfolding before him looked so damn tempting, and he dared to allow himself to envision the fantasy—
“Mornin’, Daddy,” Stevie said, spying him.
He walked inside, leaned over and gave Stevie’s head a quick kiss, tousling Seth’s hair since he knew Seth would never let him kiss him—he’d been rebuffed enough times to know better—and the wary side-eye Seth gave him was laden with uncertainty about whether or not he was in trouble. He walked up beside Heather to reach over her and take down a coffee cup from the cabinet, unsure if he ought to kiss her or if it was too soon in front of the boys.
She whirled around.
“Oh!” The edge of the skillet tapped his chest, singing his bare skin. He flinched back.
“Gear down, turbo,” he chuckled. “We ain’t spinnin’ donuts right now.”
She laughed. “Go back to bed. We were letting you sleep in.”
She moved the hot skillet to the side and pushed up on her toes, dusting a kiss on his lips as if it was the most natural thing in the world, answering all his deliberations about displays of affection in one second. He slipped his T-shirt over his head as she sidestepped him and went to the table, flipping a green chocolate-chip pancake onto a plate. Heat gathered up his neck, and he glanced to his sons for their reaction. They stared at him. Smiling.
He rubbed the spot where the burn of the skillet had bit.