Page 95

I tell that voice to shut the fuck up.

17

QUINN

Sleepover

The smell hits me before I even get my shoes off — garlic, something rich underneath it, ground beef browning — and I follow it straight into the kitchen instead of saying hello properly.

“That smells incredible. What is that?”

“You’ll see.” Wyatt doesn’t turn around, focused on the pan like it might betray him if he looks away.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s a strategic non-answer. I want you to taste it before you decide what to think about it.” He glances back at me, something almost nervous in it, quickly covered. “Names do things to people. I’d rather you just eat it.”

“That’s deeply suspicious.”

“The phrase you’re looking for is deeply delicious.”

Pickles is sprawled flat on his side by the stove, not even bothering to lift his head when I come in.

“Does he need a walk before we eat?”

“Already took him. Wore him out on purpose.” Wyatt nods at the dog, who doesn’t so much as flick an ear. “Figured we could use one uninterrupted evening around here.”

“Bold strategy.”

He plates two servings — ground beef, something creamy, a crisp golden layer on top I can’t immediately place — and slides one across the counter to me instead of answering.

I take a bite standing right there, because I can’t wait the ten seconds it’d take to sit down, and it’s good, really good, salt and starch and something underneath that tastes like it’s been made a hundred times by somebody who stopped needing a recipe for it years ago.

“Okay. What is this?”

“Tater tot hotdish.” He watches my face while he says it, careful, like the name itself might cost him something. “It’s a Minnesota thing.”

“Does the name change anything?”

“I grew up with it, so not for me. But some people think the name isn’t appealing.” He shrugs. “But now you already like it. So if somebody else ever makes it for you, you’ll still give it a fair shot instead of judging it on the name alone.”

“Who else would be making me hotdish, Wyatt?”

Something crosses his face, there and gone. I’m not sure what it means, but in my gut, I know it’s important to him.

“You never know,” he says, easy, already turning back to the stove like the conversation’s over.

I don’t push, but I know that something about this meal matters to him. I walk around the counter and put my arms around his torso, rest my cheek against his back. I feel the muscle under my cheek let go of something. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, Princess.”

“Want some help with the dishes?”

He brings both my hands to his lips and kisses my palm. Warmth builds low in my belly. “I wash, you dry.”

He rolls his sleeves to the elbow and squirts soap into the basin while I hunt down a towel that isn’t already damp. No dishwasher in this kitchen, apparently — something I should’ve known about him by now and somehow didn’t.

“You just wash by hand? Every night?”