“Yeah.” He had an almost cautious expression, as if I was freaking out.

Was I freaking out? Possibly a little. “We’re cool, right?”

Humor glinted in his eyes, turning them from glacial to just chilly. “We’re good. But listen, I’ve got to head out.”

Alarm streaked through me. “You’re leaving?”

He frowned, just a crease of his forehead, but I didn’t think it was directed at me. “It just came up.” He shook his head as if to negate the importance. “I’ll be back by dinner.”

“Right, okay.”

He gave me a speculative look. I strove for casual and failed. With a grimace I took as an attempted smile, he left the room. A few minutes later I heard his truck bump out of the driveway.

“Bye-bye,” Bailey said.

“That’s right!” I winced as my feigned cheerfulness came out louder than anticipated. “He’s gone bye-bye. But he’ll be back soon, promise!”

Back by dinner, apparently. Should I make dinner? I made dinner for Bailey and myself every day, of course, but I wouldn’t feel right serving Colin spaghetti from a can. He probably thought I could cook, seeing as I baked, but it wasn’t the same. Give me flour and sugar over turmeric any day.

I quickly finished up with the clothes; then Bailey and I forged into the kitchen. I expected a barren refrigerator, save for lumpy milk and beer. There’d be stale chips in the cupboard for sure. Instead what I found was a chef’s paradise. A fully stocked fridge with vegetables. A pantry with buckets of grains I couldn’t even name.

He did own a restaurant. I was so fucked.

But I didn’t have a choice. Most likely he did expect dinner, and besides, it seemed fair and right. Even with my income from the bakery, I couldn’t cover a fraction of the costs of this place. Of course I should contribute this way.

I rummaged through the fridge, past fancy cheeses and free-range eggs and vegetables that just reeked of organic, when I heard the crash behind me. Bailey had helped herself to the pantry, her chubby arm jammed in a box of whole wheat graham crackers. She fished out a still-wrapped plastic package and held it up triumphantly.

“Crackers,” she said with a baby chuckle.

“Glad one of us is already at home.”

She fussed at the plastic until I pulled it open for her. That pantry would need reorganization—namely, the entire bottom shelf should be empty—but that would wait for another day.

I foraged for something easy, like pasta, and came up empty until I found the lasagna slices. Sure enough, there was marinara among the sauces, ricotta among the cheeses, and grass-fed ground beef in the freezer. Hell, I’d eaten lasagna before. Mostly frozen, but it was self-explanatory, what with those layers.