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"I made grilled chicken, roasted sweet potatoes, and a quinoa thing Jenny swears by," he tells me while he shoves my sparkling waters to the side to make room. "It’s high in protein and folic acid."

I start to protest, and he glances up and smirks. “And it tastes good.”

Now, he’s rolling the sleeves of his grey henley up past his elbows to tackle the pans I left in the sink last night.

I sigh and sit on a barstool at the island, taking a slow sip of lime-flavored sparkling water while I watch him work. “I guess I can eat it then, as long as it doesn’t taste like dirt or grass or whatever.” I wrinkle my nose remembering the time I tried mushrooms on my pizza but quickly shake it off as I watch the muscles in Sumner’s back flex.

I’m fighting a losing battle against how attractive it is to watch a competent man operate in my space. Grant lived in this house for years. In all that time, he maybe did the dishes twice, and he bitched about it the entire time. He treated my kitchen like a hotel buffet where I was the maid.

Sumner just puts his head down and does the work. He scrubs the heavy pan, the thick veins in his forearms flexing against his tan skin. I tilt my head and take it all in because later on in my semi-warm pregnancy-approved bath, my little suction toy and I are gonna have some fun together to a replay of this right here.

I’ve been a weird combination of turned on and exhausted for the last week. A heavy, bone-deep exhaustion is always lingering right on the edges of my body at all times ready to swoop in and fuck up my day.

The early pregnancy fatigue is definitely kicking my ass, but holding this man at arm's length is what's draining me most. I hate how guarded I am. I hate that the shitty men in my past built this defensive wall around me brick by brick. But sitting here watching Sumner take care of me, I can finally admit to myself why I'm fighting him so hard.

I know the second I let him in, that'll be it. Like it it. He'll get my whole heart. There won't be anything I can do to stop the fall. Grant leaving stung, but I recovered because I knew deep down Grant was never the one.

Sumner could be. Not just could be but maybe is. And if I let myself fall for him and he walks away, I won't survive it.

"You really have to stop doing my dishes," I tell him, resting my chin on my hand.

Sumner rinses the pan under the faucet and sets it on the drying rack. "They’re almost done."

"Okay, but you just stocked my fridge with meals, and you didn’t even use the dishes you’re washing. This all makes me feel like I owe you, and I don’t like being in debt to anyone."

He turns off the water and tosses the dish towel onto the counter. A flash of hard, undeniable frustration crosses his face, and my stomach tightens. I know I'm pushing him away, and I know it's completely unfair, but I can't seem to stop doing it.

He leans his hip against the counter and looks across the island at me. "Whoever taught you that letting someone take care of you meant you owed them something in return was a goddamn idiot," he says, his voice low and dead serious. "We aren't keeping score. You're growing my child. The absolute least I can do is make sure you have food to eat while you do it."

The unwavering certainty in his eyes strips the air right out of my lungs. I'm so used to everything being transactional. I'm so used to having to earn the right to rely on someone, only for them to disappoint me anyway. To have this man tell me not only am I not alone in this, but he’ll be stepping up whether I like it or not is too much.

I blink a few times, trying to get a handle on my emotions because there’s no way he’s real, right?

I open my mouth to fire back a sarcastic joke to deflect the tension, but my phone starts buzzing against the counter.

The screen lights up with a picture of my mom. My stomach drops. My mom is a human lie detector, and dealing with her laser-focused interrogation while the father of my unborn child that she knows nothing about is standing across the room is a clusterfuck of epic proportions.

But I’m gonna have to deal with her at some point, or she’ll call relentlessly until I eventually pick up.

I grab the phone, hit the green accept button, and spin on my stool, fully intending to walk into the living room so I can talk to her in private.

"Hey, Mom," I say, holding the phone up to my face.

Josephine Hahn’s face fills the screen. She has her blonde hair pulled back in a claw clip, and she’s wearing her usual pastel scrubs from the massage clinic. She takes one look at her screen, her eyes darting from my face to the background over my shoulder where Sumner is still standing by the sink. Her jaw drops open.

"Goldie Hahn," my mom says, her voice hitting a pitch that never fails to make me cringe. "Who is that man in your kitchen, and why is he doing your dishes?"

I squeeze my eyes shut and let my head fall back for a second while I blow out a long breath. Christ on a cracker.

I lower the phone a fraction. "Would you believe me if I said I hired a manservant?”

Sumner coughs out a laugh somewhere behind me.

She squints at the screen, leaning closer to her camera. "Is this an Overboard situation? Did you find a rich amnesiac and convince him he's your husband so he'll clean your house? Because in theory it’s hot, but in real life kidnapping’s a federal crime."

Sumner lets out another, deeper laugh, making it extremely obvious he isn't even pretending not to listen. He walks around the island. Stepping right up behind my stool, he leans down until his chest brushes my back and his face is in the frame next to mine. I immediately catch the scent of clean laundry and whatever spicy body wash he uses, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from taking a deep breath of him.

"Good afternoon, ma'am," Sumner says, his voice a smooth, polite drawl. "I'm Sumner."