Chapter 21
Chapter twenty-one
Kate
The smell of meatloaf fills the kitchen—comforting, homey, and just slightly singed around the edges. Which feels fitting, because that’s exactly how I’m holding it together right now: mostly fine, with a few crispy spots.
Evie’s perched on a chair at the table, humming as she colors while I move between the oven and the counter, checking the potatoes for the third time. My nerves are doing laps around the room.
He’s not even late. I’m just panicking early.
I’ve thought about Cam’s marriage proposal over and over again in my mind, and I can’t produce a cons list longer than any pros list I put together. The only thing that leaves me apprehensive is how Evie will handle it all.
How do you explain to your four-year-old that Mommy’s going to marry her T-ball coach for legal reasons? There’s no chapter in the parenting manual for that.
“Mommy?”
I blink. “Hmm?”
“Why do you keep staring at the oven?”
I set down the spoon. “Just making sure it doesn’t burn.”
She squints at me, unconvinced. “You’re acting weird again.”
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
She goes back to coloring, tongue poking out as she focuses. The sight softens my nerves. She has no idea how hard I’m trying to keep the world steady under her little feet.
I remind myself that this is strategic. Not a date.
Evie suddenly gasps, crayon frozen midair. “Mommy! Why are you making the fancy dinner?”
“It’s meatloaf,” I say. “That’s not fancy.”
“It has ketchup on top.”
I bite back a smile. “Lots of things have ketchup on top.”
“Like hamburgers,” she says thoughtfully. “Or love.”
I blink. “What?”
She shrugs. “I saw that on TV.” Before I can respond, she tilts her head. “Wait. Are we having a guest?”
Her tone is suspicious.
“Maybe,” I say carefully.
Evie gasps, hopping off her chair. “Who?”
I take a deep breath. “Coach Wells.”
She screams. Not a scared scream—a Christmas morning scream.
“COACH WELLS? HE’S COMING HERE?!”
“Inside voice!”
But she’s already gone, darting into her bedroom. “Matilda! Coach Wells is coming! We need to look our best!”
I stare after her, half-laughing, half-terrified. Matilda is her stuffed green dinosaur, perpetually missing one eye. A family heirloom at this point.
She comes running back seconds later, clutching Matilda by the neck. “Do you think he likes dinosaurs?”
“I’m sure he does,” I say, checking the meatloaf again just to have something to do.
“He’s gonna love her,” Evie declares, setting Matilda at Cam’s future place at the table.
A knock sounds at the door before I can collect myself.
Evie’s eyes go wide. “HE’S HERE.”
“Evie—”
Too late. She bolts to the entryway, skidding on the rug and flinging the door open with a dramatic flourish.
“Hi, Coach Wells!”
Cam’s standing on the porch, looking entirely too put-together for someone who spends half his life in cleats. He’s holding a bakery box in one hand and a small bouquet of lilacs in the other.
“Hi, Evie. For you,” he says, crouching slightly so he’s eye-level with her. “You said once that purple is your favorite color, right?”
Her mouth drops open as she takes the flowers. “You remembered!”
“Of course I did.”
She beams so hard I’m pretty sure the porch light dims in comparison. “You can sit by me!”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” he says, stepping inside.
I hover in the doorway, trying to remember how to use words. “You didn’t have to bring anything.”
“Couldn’t show up empty-handed,” he says easily, holding up the box. “Chocolate pie from Penny’s for you.”
Evie gasps. “He brought dessert and flowers? Mommy, he’s fancy!”
Cam laughs, handing me the box. “I figured it was a safe bet. You strike me as a dessert-before-dinner kind of woman.”
“I’d never turn down a slice of Penny’s chocolate pie,” I say.
He meets my gaze. “Glad I asked Penny what your favorite was then.”
For a second, we just stand there in the doorway—him looking too hot for words, me holding a pie, and Evie wedged between us, practically vibrating with excitement.
“Come on, Coach!” she says, tugging on his sleeve. “You have to meet Matilda.”
He blinks. “Matilda?”
“My dinosaur. She’s shy.”
He grins, hands me the lilacs, and follows her toward the table. “Well, I’ll be on my best behavior, then.”
I set the flowers on the counter beside the pie box, sunlight catching the petals. Evie’s chattering nonstop, Cam nods along, his smile easy and genuine.
I fill a glass vase with water and lower the lilacs inside, trying not to look as flustered as I feel. They brighten the whole kitchen, cheerful and alive, and something about that makes my chest ache a little.
Cam steps in behind me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him. “Can I help with anything?”
“Uh—” I clear my throat, focusing on the flowers. “You can grab the plates, if you want. Cabinet above the toaster.”
“Got it.”
He moves past me, and for a second I catch the faint scent of soap and something woodsy clinging to him. It’s unfair that a man can smell that good after an afternoon of baseball camp.
He pulls out three plates, glancing over his shoulder with a grin. “Matching set. Maybe you’re the fancy one.”
“Don’t mock my Walmart dishware,” I say, fighting a smile.
“I wouldn't dream of it.”
I hand him silverware, avoiding his eyes because I’m dangerously close to smiling too hard. He takes them from me, fingers brushing mine—a brief, electric contact that leaves my pulse pounding in my ears.
Evie’s voice cuts through the tension. “Mommy! Can I show Coach Wells my new dance?”
Cam straightens. “You dance too?”
She nods proudly. “I learned it on a show! Wanna see?”
He glances at me, amused. “I mean, how do I say no to that?”
“You don’t,” I say, finally laughing.
Evie takes position in the living room and strikes a dramatic pose, one sock on, one off, hair in a crooked ponytail. “Okay! It goes like this!”
Then she launches into what can only be described as interpretive chaos—a mix of twirls, jumps, and what I think might’ve once been a cartwheel attempt.
Cam applauds like she’s performing at Radio City. “That was incredible. I think you’re ready for Broadway.”
“Really?” she beams.
“Absolutely,” he says solemnly.
Evie squeals, spinning in a circle so fast she nearly takes out a chair. I can’t help laughing, the tension in my shoulders finally easing.
Cam turns back to me with that easy grin, setting down the last fork. “You’ve got quite the performer on your hands.”
“Tell me about it,” I say, still smiling.
Then Evie hops down from her chair, holding Matilda out to Cam. “Okay, your turn.”
He blinks. “My turn?”
“Matilda wants you to dance too!”
He chuckles, hands raised. “I don’t know, kiddo. I’m more of a coach than a dancer.”
“Mommy says trying new things is good for you!”
I bite back a grin. “She’s got you there. If I remember correctly, you’re a pretty good dancer.”
He shoots me a look that says you’re enjoying this far too much, but when Evie starts clapping and chanting his name, he caves.
“Fine,” he says, shaking his head. “One move. That’s it.”
He does a quick, ridiculous little spin that sends Evie into hysterics. I’m laughing before I can stop myself. When he straightens, our eyes meet again across the kitchen—his expression soft and a little shy beneath the humor.
Damn it, this ‘fake’ thing is going to be hard.