“And talent.”
Adding pink polka-dots to the ears and legs, then a pink bow on the elephant’s head, she decorated half of them for a girl baby.
“You haven’t said why you’re here,” she murmured, waiting for a canned speech about love not being enough.
“Now blue?” he murmured, watching her grab the last pastry bag to finish the other half the same way.
“Yes.” For a boy baby.
And yes, it hurt. But not as terribly as it normally did.
She might actually be moving on.
“Why elephants? Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “They’re cute. But they’re also . . . elephants.”
“It’s what Wendy wants.” Smiling, she finished the last one, using a toothpick to clean the edges. “The nursery is safari-themed.”
The finished product was perfect gourmet cookies, too pretty to eat, and worthy of the best bakery in the world. A bakery she once dreamed of.
“And what a pregnant woman who’s just puked for the third time today wants,” she added. “A pregnant woman gets.”
He nodded sympathetically.
“Safari themed,” he mused, grabbing a pastry bag and squirting a dollop directly into his mouth. “I would’ve gone with an automatic weapon theme. Long guns, sawed-off guns, machine guns. You get the idea.”
She scoffed. “You do know we’re talking about a baby’s bedroom, right? A place of peace and safety?”
“Guns kept me safe for years. But whatever you want, cupcake.” Then he looked at the cookies, his smile morphing into an adorable frown. “Maybe not safari? I once had a bad experience in the jungle.”
She stopped in the act of wrapping the cupcakes in zebra-print paper liners. “Why are you here, Jameson?” If it’s to torture me with things I’ll never have, you’re doing a good job.
“The last time you baked in here, you attacked me physically.” He slid closer, dipping his head to get her attention. “I’m not opposed to that happening again.”
For a guy gearing up to say sayonara, he was surprisingly chill.
“Cupcake sex?” Making quick work of her coordinating cookies and cakes, she sealed them in airtight containers until Saturday’s shower. “I have a headache.”
Unless he wanted commitment sex.
“Every time I have sex with you, it’s cupcake sex.” Lifting her chin with a finger, he grew serious, his gaze unwavering. “I only want cupcake sex for the rest of my life.”
Her heart literally skipped a beat. “You call all your sex partners cupcake?”
“Only you,” he said. “It’s always only you.”
“Are you just saying that to get a cookie?”
“What kinda cookie are we talking about?”
She laughed, loving this teasing, carefree side of him. As much as she loved his intense, alpha side.
“I brought champagne.” He nodded toward the kitchen table, a bottle of pink bubbly sitting there. “Let’s celebrate.”
“Champagne?” She hadn’t noticed it until now. “Why?”
Grabbing the bottle, he twisted off the foil, then pulled two mason jars from the cabinet. No champagne flutes in Maine Lane.
“Seemed the thing to do,” he said on a shrug.
“But why?” She shook her head in confusion. The vibe he gave was decidedly celebratory. And permanent.
Holding up his glass, he waited. Then signaled for her to do the same.
“Oh, we’re doing this all formal-like,” Chloe murmured, lifting her chipped glass to his. “Okay. Cheers?”
“Cheers.” He drank as though the words he spoke and the actions he took made complete and utter sense.
When they made no damn sense at all.
But the pink bubbly tickled her nose and tasted decadent, the expensive brand her favorite for brides with no budget. He didn’t say what they were celebrating, but it must be important because the Veuve Clicquot Rose equaled six cases of paper towels.
“You think we would’ve made it?” he asked curiously, lounging back against the island.
Mimicking his position, she leaned next to him, brushing arms. And didn’t bother pretending to misunderstand.
“Honestly?”
“Preferably,” he deadpanned, setting his half-full glass on the counter.
He wasn’t a champagne kind of man. He was a beer or bourbon man, depending on his mood. The bubbly was puzzling.
“No.”
“What? Really?” His gaze narrowed, and he seemed almost . . . angry.
“You think we’d still be a couple?” Astonishment laced her voice. “If we left for California together? If we’d tried to raise Johnny?”
“Yes.” Staring her in the eye, he answered unequivocally. “Hell yes, Chloe. We would’ve made it.”
He said it as if he could command it.
“I don’t think so.” Finishing her champagne—no way was she wasting it—she started her clean up, carrying dirty dishes to the sink.
“Why?”
He helped her rinse and load the dishwasher while discussing a scenario she once wanted desperately.
“Living in an apartment on base with a baby crying off and on all day, and night,” she pointed out, “Isn’t puppies and kittens. You’d be off to war. I’d be stuck at home. I’d resent you and nag. You’d resent me and avoid. We were just too young.”
“I’d be home,” he interjected, but when she gave him a long look, he conceded her point. “When the Navy allowed me to be.”
“Right. And I had no skills to be a wife or a mother. No example other than Soraya, and she’s the gold standard.” She tapped the inside of her wrist. “I have Genevieve in these veins.”
And that was reason enough to refill her glass. Plus, Veuve Clicquot.
Plus, Jameson. Talking about babies. Their baby.
And commitment.
He tugged her hand, pulling her into his body.
Cupping her cheek, he leaned close. “You are nothing like her.”
As if to prove it, he kissed her, soft and clinging. Then hungry and seeking. She tasted the champagne on his teasing tongue and wanted more, even as he pulled away.
Mouth hovering, his voice was rough with regret.
“I wish you had the chance. I wish I could’ve shown you how wrong you are. About me, about yourself.” He ran his finger along her hairline, sweeping away the silky curls with a tenderness he didn’t seem capable of. “Best wife, best mother. We would’ve made it, Chloe. We would’ve fucking made it.”
He believed it, too.
“Your optimism is sweet, but misplaced.” Her smile was watery as she stepped out of his arms. “And I don’t wanna be like her. I never wanted to be like her. Lived my whole life actively trying not to be like Genevieve.”
“You’re not.”
“No,” she said firmly. “I am.”
“Okay, convince me. Tell me how you’re like Genevieve.”
She sighed, sipping more bubbly. “I think my dad was the love of her life.”
“The first factual thing you’ve said,” he confirmed, as though it was common knowledge.
“She was too stubborn, or stupid maybe, to realize it. To see what she had in her hands. A good man. One who would become a wonderful husband. A wonderful father one day. But she squandered it and lost him.”