Chapter 22 #2
He runs his hand over his beard. “Huh. No idea how that got there. Come on. I’ll take you to see your girl.”
Griffin
Earlier that day
Me: Denver Coloradough update #26. She’s ready.
Olivia: Dropping the girls off with your mom. Meet me at the house in fifteen. Bring an apron.
Me: I don’t have an apron.
Olivia: You can borrow one.
I arrive at Wilder and Olivia’s house bright and early with my first successful sourdough starter in a mason jar.
I’ve been working on it ever since Angie said she had a craving, and it finally doubled in size…
whatever that means. It has a weird bubbly texture and the tangy smell Olivia told me to look out for.
She’s been helping me with Operation Denver Coloradough, but we’re keeping it hush-hush for now.
I find Olivia in the kitchen with a bunch of ingredients and tools laid out on the island. She’s wearing one of her pink frilly aprons, and there’s a matching one draped over the back of a nearby stool.
I set the starter on the counter and pull on the girly apron, tying it around my waist. It’s way too short, and it hugs my belly the same way it cradles Olivia’s baby bump, but I’m too old to give a damn about how ridiculous I look.
“How’s my niece?” I ask.
She runs her hand over the top of her growing belly. “She’s very active lately. Lots of hiccups.”
“That’s a thing? Like… you can tell?”
Olivia giggles. “Yeah. It’s really weird. But also kind of cool.”
I make a mental note to ask Angie about it once our little one starts moving. God, I can’t wait to feel that first kick. I can’t wait for all of the milestones we’ll get to experience together.
I pick up a spatula and point it at Olivia with a dramatic flourish. “Ok. Teach me, oh wise one.”
Olivia slides a clear bowl across the counter, along with a scale and measuring cup. “The first rule of sourdough is patience.”
I pat my pockets, looking for a pen. “Should I be writing this down?”
“No need. I already wrote it down for you.” She pulls out a notecard from her apron and slides it into mine, giving my chest a tap.
Leave it to Olivia to have everything perfectly planned out.
“First, we’re going to mix one hundred fifty grams of Miss Denver here with three hundred fifty grams of water.”
“This is way too science-y,” I mutter. I can play the guitar, fix a car’s engine, even last eight seconds on a bucking bronco with or without a saddle, but this shit intimidates the hell outta me.
She shows me how to measure everything on the scale and hands me a weird-looking whisk with a wooden handle and a circular metal tip. Once it’s combined into an almost milky substance, she adds salt and flour, and I mix it again. Olivia’s nothing but patient as I make an absolute mess of things.
There’s flour all over the counter, and I’m pretty sure what’s left of Denver is starting to overflow out of the jar.
The sound of the front door opening and closing draws my attention. Wilder strides into the kitchen, his face pulling into a shit-eating grin as he bends to kiss his wife.
“Cute,” he says, gesturing at my apron. “Bet you’re glad you gave up your rodeo career for this.”
I narrow my eyes and flick some of the stray flour at him. “Fuck off.”
“Not a chance.” He pulls out his phone and snaps a few photos. Seconds later, the family group chat explodes with unwanted commentary.
Hayes Family Group Chat
Jaxon: The apron really brings out his eyes.
Mama: Is that sourdough starter?
Callie: Oh my god, are you making bread for Angie?
Me: How did you know?
Callie: Group chat. No men allowed.
Jaxon: Rude.
“We started a baby mama group chat,” Olivia says. “Angie’s been talking about her craving for weeks.”
My phone chimes with another text from a new thread called Baby Daddies Assemble.
Baby Daddies Assemble
Wilder: This is petty, even for you Jaxy.
Jaxon: If we’re gonna make it out of this alive, we need to stick together.
“How’s operation… what is it called again?” Wilder asks Olivia.
“Denver Coloradough,” she replies.
“Right. That. How’s it going?”
“Your brother is hopeless in the kitchen, but it could be a lot worse.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Livie girl.” I stow my phone back in my pocket and lean against the island. “What’s next?”
Olivia hip checks me out of the way and covers the bowl with a dish towel. “Now we let the dough rest.”
“Seriously? That’s it?”
“Patience, remember? Go find something to keep yourself busy and meet me back here in an hour.”
She wraps her arms around Wilder’s neck, passively dismissing me without another word. I don’t stick around to find out what they’ll be doing while I’m gone, but I can make an educated guess.
I head home to work on clearing out my spare bedroom. It’s full of boxes and storage bins I’ve been meaning to move into the basement. Now’s as good a time as any. We’re almost halfway through the pregnancy, and the baby is gonna need somewhere to sleep.
I return an hour later, and Olivia shows me how to do something called stretch-and-fold. It’s a whole lot of slapping and turning.
“See how it’s not as stretchy now?” she asks.
“Sure.” I nod, unconvinced.
She covers the bowl again and sets the egg timer for another thirty minutes.
“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” I mutter.
“Nope. Rule number one.”
I untie the apron and toss it onto the stool. “Patience. Fuck. The things I do for my wife.”
The process repeats multiple times, and by the end, I actually have a decent handle on things. It’s weirdly relaxing.
She covers the bowl once again. “Now we let it sit for a few hours. It should double in size and have a bunch of little bubbles.”
“Liv… How long does this whole process take?”
“Total? Roughly eight to ten hours, give or take.”
I throw my head back and groan. Eight fucking hours. For a loaf of bread.
Olivia laughs. “Did you do any research before you decided to try this?”
I grimace. “Not really. I just assumed it was like making cookies.”
“Oh, you sweet summer child.” She gives my forearm a reassuring squeeze. “Come back in a few hours, and I’ll show you how to shape it.”
It ends up taking a full ten hours of my life, and by the end, I have two decent-looking loaves of sourdough.
One of them has a rough, heart-shaped mark on the top.
Olivia showed me how to use a blade to make designs in the dough, but I don’t have an artistic bone in my body.
I was made for manual labor, not whatever this is.
When I arrive at Angie’s house, she’s already curled up on the couch with a blanket pulled around her shoulders, and My Big Fat Greek Wedding is queued up to her favorite scene.
She presses pause on the TV as I stride past her into the kitchen.
“What’s that smell?” she asks, her brow furrowed.
Not quite meeting her gaze, I set the brown paper bag on the island and head for the fridge. “I don’t smell anything.”
“You’re lying. What’s in the bag?”
When I don’t answer, she shrugs off her blanket and strides over to me. She gets to it before I can stop her, the brown paper bag crinkling as she pulls open the flap. “Oh, my god. Is that sourdough? It smells amazing. Where did you get it?”
I set all of the ingredients on the counter and pull out a frying pan for the bacon. “I made it.”
“Bullshit. Sourdough takes hours. When would you have had time?”
Doesn’t she know by now there’s not a single thing I wouldn’t do for her?
I rest my palms on the island and lean in close. “I make time for the people and things that matter to me.”
She stares at me, dumbfounded, her chest rising and falling with each breath.
I grip her chin between my thumb and forefinger. “That’s you and tater tot, in case that wasn’t clear.”
Her head slowly rolls to the side, and her expression softens. “Griffin. You didn’t have to—”
I cut her off with a kiss to the tip of her nose. “I wanted to. Go sit down and relax. Dinner will be ready soon.”
Instead of retreating to the living room, she slowly steps around the island, threads her fingers into my hair, and pulls me down for a leisurely kiss. It’s soft and achingly sweet, and I don’t dare to deepen it. When she finally releases me, I’ve all but forgotten how to speak.
I watch the subtle sway of her hips as she retreats to the sofa, the globes of her round ass peeking out beneath the blanket, showing me she’s not wearing anything on her bottom half.
Fuck me.
I swear she taunts me on purpose. As much as I’d love to skip to the part of the evening where she’s wrapped around me again, I should feed her first.
As the bacon sizzles in the frying pan, I turn my attention to the avocado. Angie’s phone lights up in my periphery, but I can’t make anything out from this distance. She laughs and types out a response. Another message comes in, and the cycle repeats.
“Is that your little baby mama group chat?”
She glances over her shoulder, eyeing me critically. “What do you know about that?”
“Not much. Just that you’ve been telling them about your cravings.” Her face flushes pink, and I lower my voice to a gravelly tone. “I was talking about the sourdough, baby girl. What else have you been craving?”
Her phone dings again. She falls back on the couch as laughter overtakes her—body shaking, feet kicking, all-consuming laughter.
“What’s so funny?”
“Oh, my god.” She scrambles into a sitting position. “Oh, my god. I’m gonna pee.”
She dashes into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.
I look back at the sofa where her discarded phone lies unlocked and face up on the cushion with a photo of me in Olivia’s frilly apron still visible on the screen.
There’s flour everywhere, on my jeans, my face, my hands.
I can’t even blame her for laughing; I look ridiculous.
I set the bacon aside and slice the avocado. When she reappears, I don’t waste any time ditching the unfinished meal and pulling her into my arms. “Do you find it funny that I spent all day making bread especially for you, my beautiful wife?”