Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
DEAN
Iroll onto my back, letting my body wake slowly for the first time in what feels like forever. My arms stretch above my head, and a long breath escapes my lungs.
I feel … rested. The realization is so foreign that it takes a second to register.
I actually slept. My eyes drift toward the clock on the nightstand—8:47.
My heart lurches. I shoot upright so fast that the room spins. The bassinet beside my bed is empty.
Every ounce of peace evaporates in an instant.
“Liana?” The name leaves my mouth before my brain catches up.
Aubrey.
A rush of relief crashes into me almost as quickly as the panic did.
Still, I don’t waste another second before throwing the covers back and hurrying toward the bedroom door.
I step into the hallway, expecting to hear Liana crying. Instead, I hear soft humming.
Following the sound into the kitchen, I find Aubrey standing at the island with Liana tucked against her shoulder. She’s swaying gently as she warms a bottle in a mug of hot water.
She glances over when she hears my footsteps. “Good morning.”
“You should’ve woken me.”
A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “You weren’t waking to her soft cries, so I figured you needed to catch up on some sleep.”
“I slept until almost nine.”
“You needed it.”
I walk over and hold my arms out. “I can take her.”
Without hesitation, Aubrey transfers Liana into my arms.
The tiny weight settles against my chest, and almost instinctively, I kiss the top of her dark hair.
“How long has she been up?”
“About two hours.” Aubrey reaches over to check the bottle before handing it to me. “She was all smiles this morning.”
I settle onto one of the stools at the kitchen island and guide the bottle to Liana’s lips. She immediately latches on.
Aubrey opens the refrigerator. “Are you hungry? I can make some breakfast.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.” She smiles over her shoulder. “But I want to.”
I start to argue before she pulls out bacon, and my desire for it trumps my not wanting to inconvenience her.
The thought of not having to make breakfast or clean up afterward sounds incredible.
“I guess I won’t stop you.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
She moves comfortably around the kitchen, like she’s been here for longer than a day, gathering eggs, fruit, and pancake mix before setting everything on the counter.
I take a sip of my coffee, quietly watching her.
Gone are the interview clothes she wore a week ago.
Instead, she’s dressed in soft gray pajama shorts and an oversize white T-shirt she tucked casually into the waistband. Her dark hair is piled in a messy knot on top of her head, a few loose strands framing her face.
She looks comfortable.
As she reaches into the cabinet above the stove, the hem of her shorts shifts just enough for my eyes to drift lower to find long, tanned legs. They are lean and toned. My gaze lingers a beat too long.
I immediately look away.
She’s making me breakfast while holding my life together. The last thing I should be doing is noticing how good she looks in a pair of pajama shorts.
I focus my attention back where it belongs—on Liana.
She blinks up at me with sleepy blue eyes before wrapping her tiny fingers around one of mine.
Much better.
I finish the last sip of my coffee just as Aubrey slides a plate of bacon onto a paper towel–lined dish.
Without thinking, I stand and pour myself another cup.
She glances over her shoulder, one eyebrow lifting. “Is that your second cup?”
I look down into my mug. “I think so.”
“You think so?”
“I haven’t really paid attention.”
A laugh slips from her as she cracks another egg into the skillet.
I lean against the island, Liana still happily drinking her bottle in my arms.
“I usually have three every morning.”
“Usually?”
“Sometimes four.”
Her eyes widen. “Before lunch?”
“It depends on the day.”
She shakes her head, trying to hide a smile. “I’d be vibrating.”
“I’ve built up a tolerance.”
“I’m pretty sure you’ve built up a dependency.”
“I prefer to think of it as a healthy working relationship.”
She laughs again, and I realize it might be the first genuine, unfiltered laugh I’ve heard inside this apartment in a long time.
“I’ll make you a deal,” she says.
“I’m listening.”
“You eat an actual breakfast before you refill that mug again.”
I glance at the coffeepot, then at the plate she’s putting together.
“You drive a hard bargain.”
“It’s eggs and bacon, Dean. Not a hostage negotiation.”
“I’ve skipped breakfast for years.”
She pauses what she’s doing long enough to look at me. “Why?”
“I’ve never been hungry in the morning.”
“No,” she says thoughtfully. “You’ve never made time.”
Her words catch me off guard.
She’s right.
For years, my mornings have been nothing more than coffee, emails, conference calls, and whatever breakfast meeting Brady managed to squeeze into my calendar.
I can’t remember the last time I sat at my own kitchen island while someone cooked.
Or the last time I simply … existed in my own home.
“So,” Aubrey says, breaking the silence as she flips the eggs, “what was your breakfast before Liana?”
I smirk. “Coffee.”
“And?”
“More coffee.”
She points the spatula at me. “I knew it.”
“I fail to see the problem.”
“The problem,” she says with a grin, “is that your daughter deserves a dad who’s powered by more than caffeine.”
I glance down at Liana. She’s finished eating, and she’s staring up at me with those impossibly blue eyes.
Against my better judgment, I slide my untouched coffee mug a few inches farther away.
Aubrey catches the movement and smiles to herself before turning back to the stove.
She doesn’t say a word.
For some reason, that makes me smile too.
After I manage to get a couple of solid burps out of Liana, I settle her into the swing. She stares up at the hanging animals for a moment before one tiny yawn escapes her, her eyelids growing heavier with each gentle sway.
Satisfied she’s content for the moment, I make my way back to the kitchen island.
Aubrey has somehow transformed my kitchen into something that smells like an actual home. A massive plate—piled high with scrambled eggs, bacon, fresh fruit, and a stack of pancakes—waits in front of my seat.
I stop short. “Whoa.” I look from the plate to her. “That’s … a lot of food.”
“I’m trying to undo years of coffee counting as breakfast.”
Much to my surprise, she carries an equally loaded plate around the island and slides onto the stool beside me.
She grabs the bottle of syrup and generously pours it over her pancakes before setting it down with a satisfied nod. “If you aren’t getting enough sleep,” she says matter-of-factly, “then you have to get your energy from somewhere.”
She points her fork in my direction. “Now … eat.”
I can’t remember the last time someone ordered me to do something.
Oddly enough …
I don’t mind.
I pick up my fork and cut into the eggs. They’re light, fluffy, and somehow seasoned perfectly. The bacon has just enough crunch without being overdone.
I glance over at her. “Where’d you learn to cook?”
She shrugs like it’s no big deal.
“I don’t know. College, I guess.” She pops a strawberry into her mouth before continuing, “Living off ramen gets old pretty fast. I figured if I was going to be broke, I might as well learn how to cook.”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it. “Fair point.”
“My roommates appreciated it.”
“They did?”
“Oh, absolutely. They conveniently always had somewhere to be whenever it was their turn to cook.”
“I’ve heard that’s a common problem.”
She grins. “You’ve had roommates.”
“In college.”
“Were you the one who never cooked?”
“I was the one who ordered pizza.”
She laughs again, shaking her head. “Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.”
For a few minutes, the only sounds in the room are forks against plates and the gentle hum of Liana’s swing.
It’s … nice. Comfortable.
Not something I’m used to.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Aubrey cut into her pancakes without the slightest bit of self-consciousness. She eats because she’s hungry, not because she’s worried about appearances.
It’s strangely refreshing.
I’m used to business dinners where women pick at salads before insisting they’re full after three bites.
Aubrey, on the other hand, pours another drizzle of syrup over her pancakes and happily takes another bite.
The corner of my mouth twitches.
She catches me looking. “What?”
“Hmm?”
“You smiled,” she says with her mouth full.
“I did?”
She swallows. “You definitely did.”
“I was just …” I shake my head. “Nothing.”
She narrows her eyes playfully. “I don’t believe you.”
As she talks, a tiny drop of syrup clings to the corner of her mouth.
Without meaning to, my attention catches there. Her lips are full. Soft-looking.
I force my gaze back to my plate before she notices.
Get it together, Ledger.
She’s sitting in your kitchen because she agreed to help raise your daughter. Not because she’s someone you should be looking at.
This is Aubrey Cooper here, Noah’s little sister. You can’t be noticing her lips.
I pick up another piece of bacon, determined to give my attention to breakfast instead of the woman sitting beside me.