A match scraping on sandpaper told me he was firing up the old Franklin stove in the kitchen, and I knew it’d be warm down there soon. After sweeping my hair up into two pigtails, I headed down the back stairs that led into the kitchen.

“So, what kind of game?” I asked, watching him taking out what looked like everything from the fridge at once.

“Eggs okay with you? I can make toast,” he said, juggling a package of bacon, a carton of eggs, and some potatoes.

“Eggs are fine. What kind of game?” I asked, tugging at my shirt to pull it down a little lower.

“Football,” he said, his face hidden from me in the pantry. “Do you know how to make biscuits?”

Football—of course. A bunch of pieces clicked into place. The physique. The coaching. The scars. The smashed knuckles. The overall beefiness.

“You played football? For how long?” I asked, sitting down on a step, tucking my legs up under my chin.

“Forever. Biscuits?” He looked at me over a bag of flour.

“Hmm?”

“Biscuits. Know how to make them?”

“Hell no. I’d scorch the earth if I tried to cook something.”

“I thought you went to culinary school with Roxie.”

I snorted, resting my chin in my hands. “Sadly, going to culinary school and being good at culinary school are not the same thing. Ask Roxie to tell you about the time I burned water.”

“You can’t cook? Like, at all?” he asked, assembling everything on the counter.

“No, not all women can cook, you know,” I replied, arching my eyebrow toward him. He didn’t respond, too busy beating up on some eggs. “Do you get the Times?”

“Should be on the front porch. I think I heard it hit the door earlier.”

I stood up, brushing off my behind. He whistled at me, and I flashed him as I walked away. Was it a coincidence that I heard what sounded like six eggs cracking all at once? Or was my ass just that sweet?

I peeped through the lace curtains on the front door, and did indeed spy the Sunday Times sitting on the welcome mat. Wincing at the sudden guilt that washed over me that I wasn’t at brunch (well played, Ma, I’m ninety miles away), I wrapped a throw blanket around my shoulders and darted outside to snatch it up. Brrrr, it was really cold this morning! Seeing my breath puff all around me as I bent down, I almost didn’t see the basket by the front door, with a red-and-white-checked cloth tucked in and a note addressed to Oscar. Grabbing the basket and the paper, I headed back in.

“The Times, and something else,” I announced, setting them down on the counter. He looked up from the bacon, saw the basket, and then looked at the newspaper.

“I get the financial section first,” he said, returning to the bacon.

“Um, okay,” I said, picking up the basket and dangling it off one finger. “Don’t you want to know what this is?”

“I know what it is,” he answered, and went back to his bacon. Silence in the kitchen.

“Shit, I want to know what it is, too!” I said, sitting down on the stool across the island from where he was, looking everywhere but the basket.

“A hundred bucks says it’s muffins,” he said, nodding for me to go ahead and open up the basket. I lifted up the corner of the red and white checks.

“They are muffins,” I said, looking back up at him. “What are you, on some kind of muffin delivery?”

“You could say that. Try one, they’re delicious. Pumpkin is my guess,” he said, nodding me forward.

“Yeah?” I asked, picking one out and sniffing it. “I’ll be damned, it is pumpkin.” I bit off a corner, then swooned. “Ah mah guh thih ih hayvon.”

“Told you,” he said with a laugh, flipping the bacon with tongs and impressively stirring a panful of eggs at the same time.

I chewed, then swallowed. “Sign me up for this delivery; these are the best muffins ever.” I took another monster bite.

“I’ll tell Missy you liked them,” he said, an amused look on his face.

I stopped midchew. “Meffy mah dees?” I sprayed pumpkin crumbs everywhere, and didn’t even care. I scrambled back to the basket, opening the note that was pinned to the outside.

Thanks for everything Friday night, you’re the best.

Missy

XOXO

My mind reeled, rolling back to Friday night. Whoa, wait a minute. He didn’t leave me to go to—

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on a minute here. You left me to go see your ex-wife, and then you knowingly feed me her thanks for the Friday-night fuck muffins? What the hell?” I picked up the note and read it aloud with the most sickeningly sweet voice I could muster. “You’re the best. Come on, why doesn’t she just say, Hey ex-husband, thanks for the penis, thanks for visiting my vagina, here’s some fucking awesome muffins?”

“She bakes me muffins all the time—”

“Oh, is that what they call it up here?”

“Is that what they call what up here? What are you talking about?”

“Well then, what the hell did I do last night: churn your butter? You better not have whipped her cream, or so help me God, I will—”

“I fixed her hot water heater.”

I froze. Then blinked. And glared.

“What the hell kind of sick sex act is that?”

“Did you smoke crack when you were outside?” he asked, the bacon now smoking and the eggs a curdled mess. Even not directly touching it, I can ruin a meal.

“Did you or did you not leave me Friday night, after fucking my brains out, because your ex-wife called?”