Page 24 of Only for Tonight

As Alexei turns to prepare Ella’s evening bottle, I wonder how I’ll possibly keep my hands to myself when this gorgeous man is strutting around looking like sex on a stick, all while doing nothing more than holding a baby who doesn’t belong to him. I can’t stop thinking about it. Every time he does something with Ella, my ovaries think for me.

I’m totally screwed.

Chapter Six

Alexei

It’s been three days, and we have a system.

Nobody planned it. There was no sit-down, no chore chart taped to the fridge, no awkward conversation about who handles what. It just appeared one morning, fully formed, like it had been waiting for us to catch up.

She cooks. I handle Ella.

My alarm goes off at seven, and by the time I’ve brushed my teeth and pulled on shorts, she’s already in the kitchen. I can hear the click of the gas burner, a pan hitting the grate, the fridge opening and closing. And underneath it all—humming. She hums while she cooks. Never a full song, just these soft little melodies that drift through the apartment, and I don’t think she knows she’s doing it. Sometimes it’s whatever was on the radio yesterday. Sometimes it’s nothing I recognize at all. Sometimes it stops mid-phrase and I know she’s tasting something or adjusting the heat, and I hold my breath until it starts again.

Every morning. Like clockwork.

I go to Ella first. She’s usually awake by the time I get to her, lying in the crib—a real one now, not the Pack ‘n Play, because I had one delivered and Ryleigh fought me on it for eleven solid minutes before caving. Ella kicks her legs when she sees me and makes this gurgling sound that Ryleigh swears is gas but I know is recognition.

“Morning, princess.” I lift her out, check the diaper situation—catastrophic, as per usual—and get her changed. She grabs my fingers while I’m doing the snaps on her onesie, trying to shove my pinkie into her mouth. I let her have it. She hums around my knuckle, satisfied.

By the time I carry her into the kitchen, there’s coffee on the counter. My mug. The big dark blue one without a handle. Ryleigh knows which one I use. I never told her.

There’s also a bottle of formula measured and ready, water already the right temperature.

“Morning,” Ryleigh says without turning around. Spatula in hand. Hair in that bun. Bare feet on marble. She’s wearing an oversized T-shirt that I’m about ninety percent sure is mine—a Hawks practice tee that vanished from my laundry pile yesterday. We haven’t discussed this.

“Morning.” I grab my coffee and take a sip while Ella squirms in my arms, impatient for her bottle. I shake it one-handed and settle onto my stool, and she latches on like it’s been days instead of hours.

“Eggs are almost done.” Ryleigh glances over her shoulder. “Also, I used the last of that good cheese. The white one.”

“The gruyere?”

“Sure. The fancy one.” Half-smile. “Add it to my tab.”

“Your tab’s getting long.”

“My tab is imaginary and we both know it.”

She plates the eggs—mine first, bigger portion, then hers—and sets my plate next to my coffee. I eat one-handed while Ella works on her bottle, and Ryleigh takes the stool beside me with her own plate. Close enough that I catch the scent of her—warm skin, sleep, my shampoo.

This is our morning. Every morning for three days. And what scares me, what actually keeps me up at night if I’m being honest, is how fast it became ours. How the rhythm clicked into place without effort, without negotiation, like we’d been rehearsing for this in separate rooms our whole lives and finally got put on the same stage.

I catch myself watching her. She’s eating, scrolling her phone, head tilted so that one strand of honey hair has slipped loose from her bun and is resting against the side of her neck. She tucks it behind her ear without looking up. Her bottom lip catches between her teeth while she reads—a text maybe.

She looks up. Catches me.

I redirect to Ella’s bottle with the speed of someone who’s been getting caught all week and is developing a reflex.

“She’s almost done,” I say, like that’s what I was staring at.

“Mm-hm.” Back to her phone. But I see it—the twitch at the corner of her mouth.

She knows. She absolutely knows.

After breakfast, she reaches for Ella so I can eat with both hands. The handoff is practiced now, smooth—she slides her palm under Ella’s back, I pull my arm away, and for maybe a full second our fingers overlap. Her hand against mine. Warm. Small.

Neither of us acknowledges it.