But it was the kitchen that did it for me. The kitchen was phenomenal. An abundance of white cabinets, the wall ones all glass fronted, quirky ones handcrafted to set in corners and spots that were tough to fill. Slate floors. Fabulous black-and-white-tiled splashbacks. An enormous island in the middle. Shiny marble countertops. Restaurant-quality stainless-steel appliances, including a narrow but fabulous wine fridge. Inlaid cookbook holder. Built-in microwave and double oven, one fan assisted.

A baker’s dream.

My dream.

It was fifty thousand dollars over budget but I bought it because I thought it was worth it. Since then, even though the first year it was rough going, I never regretted it.

As I walked through the front living room off of which were two bedrooms and a bath to the double doorway that led to the kitchen, I thought the same thing.

And when I hit the kitchen and saw Brock resting faded-jeans-clad hips against the back counter, teeth sinking into a cupcake, half of a mountainous swirl of silver-dusted, pale lilac frosting, sprinkled with pastel candy confetti disappearing behind his full lips, I made an instant decision. I was going to go through my paperwork, find out the day I signed on the dotted line that made that house my home, and celebrate it with a huge, honking party every fucking year.

“She’s gone,” I informed him, stopping on the other side of the island and putting my hands on it.

I watched with admittedly captivated attention as he licked frosting from his lips after he swallowed and then he asked, “How long’s it take her to get home?”

“Twenty minutes,” I answered.

His eyes locked with mine and he said quietly, “You need to call her in twenty-five minutes, babe.”

My gaze held his as more warm gushiness hit my belly, knowing he got it, he read her mood, he knew she was hurting, and he wanted me to check in on her.

“Okay,” I whispered.

He studied me and I let him.

Then he asked, still talking quietly, “How you doin’?”

“Sharing that with her was not fun,” I admitted.

“I could guess that part, Tess,” he told me, again quietly.

I nodded and took a breath. Then I added, “I’m glad I did it. I’m sorry I didn’t do it earlier. I’m glad it’s done and I’m glad I never have to do it again. That’s as far as I’ve got.”

“Right,” he whispered.

He shoved the rest of the cupcake into his mouth. I watched him chew and swallow.

Then he asked, “Would it piss you off to know that right about now I’m wondering if I walked in here yesterday because I missed my Tess or if it was because I missed her cupcakes?”

I grinned at him.

Then I answered, “No, because I am my cupcakes.”