Page 16 of Only for Tonight

There’s a small cry from down the hall.

Ryleigh puts down her fork and starts to stand. I place my hand on her shoulder—not hard, just enough pressure to stop her.

“Let me. You eat.”

She hesitates. I can see the refusal loading—the automatic I’ve got it, the stubborn independence she wears like armor. Then her eyes drop to her half-finished plate, and something in her gives.

“Okay. Thank you.”

The guest room is dim, curtains drawn. Ella’s on her back in the Pack ‘n Play, arms flailing, legs kicking, face scrunched and red, crying with an impressive volume for someone who weighs less than a bag of flour.

“Hey, princess.” I reach in and scoop her up. She’s so light it catches me off guard—lighter than my sister’s kids were at this age, I think, and I make a mental note to ask Ryleigh if she’s had a checkup. If her mom left that information behind, which I’m guessing she didn’t.

Ella’s fist grabs my T-shirt, tiny fingers curling into the cotton, and her cries start to taper as I settle her against my chest. I rub slow circles on her back and she lets out a shuddering little sigh, her body going slack against me.

“That’s my girl,” I murmur, then catch myself.

She’s not my girl. She’s not my anything.

I carry her back to the kitchen, and when Ryleigh looks up from her plate, some warm, unguarded expression crosses her features, but it’s gone before I can name it. She drops her gaze to her coffee, and I pretend I didn’t see it.

I settle back onto my stool one-handed—Ella in the crook of my left arm, fork in my right. Years of family dinners at my mother’s table trained me for exactly this. Someone’s always shoving a baby at you mid-bite. You adapt or you don’t eat.

“Okay, seriously.” Ryleigh’s watching me cut bacon with one hand while Ella grabs at my shirt. “How?”

“How what?”

“How do you just do everything while holding a baby? Like it’s not even a factor?”

“Professional uncle, remember?”

She snorts. Actually snorts—this completely graceless, delighted sound—and then claps her hand over her mouth.

We finish breakfast like that—the three of us at the counter, Ella blinking at the ceiling, Ryleigh sneaking glances at me when she thinks I’m focused on my food.

I catch every single one.

She collects the plates and turns on the sink before I can object.

“You don’t have to—”

“Whoever doesn’t cook does dishes. That’s the rule.”

“Whose rule?”

“Mine. Brand new. Just invented it.”

I grab a towel.

Side by side at the sink—her washing, me drying, Ella propped against my shoulder making soft cooing sounds. Morning light pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows, warming the kitchen, catching the honey tones in Ryleigh’s hair. It’s so domestic it almost makes me dizzy.

It’s weird, but not bad weird.

She passes me a wet plate, and our fingers overlap.

My heart is doing something it has no business doing for a woman I’ve known less than twenty-four hours.

“I, uh—” I clear my throat. “Need to be at practice in about forty minutes.”