“Ophelia was right. Dr. Cubio is great. They want to perform their own ultrasound to be thorough, but Squish is perfect.”

“That calls for celebration. Chinese or Thai?”

She studied me, her gaze sliding down my body in a way I fought to ignore. After a moment, she moved aside so I could come in. “Thai.”

No argument?

Alert the Vatican.

It’s a motherfuckin’ miracle.

* * *

Mac

“You like waffles, neighbor?” Ward asked, entering my house after just a quick knock.

He was late. Way late. So late, I should’ve already cooked my dinner. I should’ve been getting settled for bed.

I’d done none of that.

Because I’d been waiting.

“Hello. Welcome. Come in,” I deadpanned.

“Waffles, Mac. Do you like them?”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Serial killers and psychopaths.” Ward continued into the kitchen with a plastic bag. “How do you like your eggs?”

“Poached.”

He scowled at me. “Speaking of serial killers…”

I shrugged. “You asked.”

“Your choices are scrambled with cheese or scrambled without cheese.”

“So many options. I’ll take them with cheese.”

He lifted his chin in that cool way as he began pulling eggs, cheese, and syrup out of the bag.

“Uh, Ward…” When his worried gaze shot to me, I tipped my head to the bottle of Mrs. Butterworth. “Is it awkward seeing your ex?”

“Ha. Ha. Fuckin’. Ha. Knew you were gonna give me shit.”

“What I was really going to tell you is I don’t have a waffle maker.”

“Don’t need it. Got frozen ones.”

“Like Eggos?” I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, but Ward had spoiled me with his cooking. Frozen cardboard with abs would never match up.

“Don’t let Swedes hear you say that.”

The wave of disappointment grew into a tsunami of anticipation. Swedes was responsible for the amazing fried chicken Ward had brought me. If his waffles were even half as good, I couldn’t wait.

I mimed zipping my lips before Ward turned away to unbag the rest. He handed me a sparkling water. “You need to drink more.”

He wasn’t wrong, but I scowled down at the gross water—sparkling or not.

Until I saw the flavor.

“They make strawberry margarita sparkling water?”

“Saw it and thought of you. Go sit. This’ll only take me a minute.”

He saw it.

And thought of me.

I was about to tell him to stop being so nice. To stop feeling sorry for me. To cut it all out.

I was about to tell him thank you. That I was glad he was there. That I looked forward to our dinners.

But before my brain could decide which emotional path it should travel on, my eyes narrowed on his upper arm.

More specifically, the stain on his tee. Which, with the lack of any discernible cut or scrape, didn’t seem to belong to him.