Her stomach rumbles. “I am hungry, and I want to stay.”
With a smile, I swing my legs out of bed, stare at the wedding dress in tatters on the floor, then grab a T-shirt from a drawer and hand it to her.
She pulls it on, swimming in it. “How do I look?”
“Good enough to eat again.” And that’s the truth too.
After I tug on boxer briefs, we head downstairs, where I whip up scrambled eggs.
“You can cook,” she says, whistling in admiration as she sits on a stool at the island counter.
“Isn’t that like the equivalent of saying I can put down the toilet seat? Seems a basic skill.”
She shrugs. “You’d be surprised.”
I throw her a dubious glance. “Don’t tell me Mister Jackass didn’t cook?”
“Didn’t cook. Didn’t clean either.”
I groan. Men. What is wrong with some of them? “Well, I have a person to cook for.”
She sighs softly. “Tell me more about Abby. What she’s like?”
A smile takes over my face. “Are you trying to win my heart? Asking me to talk about my little lady? Well, if you insist,” I say, with an of course I’ll go on and on shrug. “She’s feisty and snuggly and smart. She wants to get a dog, but that’s hard with me being on the road. She’d take a cat though, she says. Or a hedgehog, if that’s easier.”
“Are hedgehogs easier on the road?”
I stop, raising the red plastic spatula, wondering what the hell the answer is to that. “You know, I have no idea about the care and feeding of hedgehogs. But I know this. She wants to name it Dolly. Cat, dog, or hedgie.”
Her eyes pop. “Shut the front door. She’s a Dolly Parton fan?”
I give her a look, complete with a full-on eye roll. “As if she’d be anything but. My kid has taste, Katie.”
Katie’s eyes twinkle, and I want to keep putting that light there. “The best taste,” she says.
“No doubt. And hey, I’d still think she was the bomb even if she loved Green Day or Nickelback but whew.” I stop to wipe a hand across my brow. “Glad she does not.”
“Bless her heart,” Katie says, full-on Texas style, then her eyes sweep the kitchen and land on a framed photo of Abby on the edge of the island counter. My little bear is perched in a saddle on a pony, reins in her hands. “That is adorable. Does she want a pony too?”
“She might have mentioned it. But she says she’ll name it Mia.”
Katie tilts her head, RCA dog style. “That’s going to need a little more explanation. Not Dolly, or Cinnamon Apple or Midnight Ranger or some other very horse-like name?”
Ah, this name might open a can of worms. But what’s the harm in bringing it up? I’m not getting my kid a pony, no matter how much of a softie I am. And my kid isn’t getting a sibling from me, so the reason Abby likes the name doesn’t truly matter.
I turn off the flame, slide the eggs onto a plate. “Apparently, Mia is her dream name for a little sister. She has a half brother, so she says”—I dip into my daughter’s sassy but sweet voice—“if you won’t give me a little sister, I’ll gladly take a pony named Mia instead.”
An awkward laugh falls from Katie’s lips, but she seems to pull it back quickly, rearranging her features into a gentle smile. “Well, I guess Abby knows what she wants.”
I’m glad Katie doesn’t ask about more kids.
Whether I want them.
Whether Abby’s dreams align with any potential reality.
It’s not exactly the easiest conversation to have with a woman I just slept with. Or took out on a date. Was tonight a date? It felt a little like one at the costume shop and the lounge.
“She definitely does,” I say, then serve my after-midnight guest her late dinner, handing her a red-and-white-checkered napkin and a fork. “Here you go, ma’am, courtesy of the chef extraordinaire at Harlan’s Late-Night Diner of Deliciousness.”
“Why thank you very much, sexy chef,” she says, then adds a little coyly, “I hope there’s dessert on the menu.”
I scoff as I sit next to her, setting a plate down for me too. “Of course you get multiple desserts, sweetheart.”
She takes a bite, then moans. “Mmm. This is delish. Also, you can screw like a very sexy beast,” she says with a naughty grin, and I shoot her an approving nod for using the best term ever. “Plus, you can show a woman a good time, and you can change positions on the football field. What’s that all about, Mister Running Back Turned Receiver? I read the news reports when you switched, but was curious if you liked it better.”
I key in on one delicious detail she just revealed. “Ah, so you read about me? While you were off in Los Angeles being a flamingo in your tree pose or what-have-you, and sassing everyone with your funny yoga sayings?”