“Hey, girls.” Dylan grabbed the binder and turned to the section labeled Weekly Meal Plan. “How would you like to surprise Baba?”
“What are we going to do?” Sophia brought her plate to the dishwasher.
“We’re going to cook,” he said with a lot more certainty than he felt.
“Can you do that?” Chloe eyed him suspiciously. “You gotta use big people knives, you know.”
“I can handle a knife.”
Several hours and three knuckle Band-Aids later, he wasn’t so sure. He had his tablet propped up on a flour canister, a video on browning meat playing, the girls staging a doll fashion show on the dining area floor, and a zillion storage bags and containers over the counter.
“Is something burning?” Sophia’s nose wrinkled.
“No—yes.” Dylan rescued a pan from the range, but the onions were already black. Apollo’s list of steps made all this sound so easy. “We might have to make some alterations to the meal plan.”
“Baba doesn’t like al-tra-nations.” Chloe danced her doll around the floor.
“Don’t I know it.”
* * *
Apollo’s back ached. He’d endured a helicopter ride out to a remote desert area where a training exercise was taking place, and he must have sat wrong or tweaked something getting out of the chopper. But when the admiral wanted to personally supervise an exercise, Apollo’s job was to make that happen, not whine about his back. And she’d been right to be concerned about how a young gung-ho LT was handling a no-win scenario for the first time. Felt like a million years ago that had been him, in command for the first time, adrenaline pumping, hell-bent on succeeding. He was glad he’d been able to have a word with the LT, even if he was paying the price now.
Gingerly, he got out of the car. It was often impossible to pinpoint what set his back off, but once again it was horked up. Thank goodness the girls were probably long since asleep—he didn’t want to deal with explaining why Baba couldn’t pick them up. What he wanted was a long soak in the hot tub while he debated whether this was bad enough to take meds. He had to be back at base early the next morning, which didn’t give him a lot of leeway if the meds made him groggy.
“Fu—heck.” Coming into the house, he tripped on a firetruck, making his back muscles protest as he fought to stay upright. Huh. The living room was a wreck—kid toys everywhere, cushions on the floor. In the past two weeks Apollo had gotten used to coming home to a clean house.
“Dylan?” he called out as he made a halfhearted effort to straighten the couch. Do not get angry, he lectured himself. God only knows what sort of day he had with the girls.
“In the kitchen.” Dylan’s voice sounded strained, and Apollo’s senses immediately went on high alert. “Maybe don’t come in here.”
That had Apollo crossing the room faster, back be damned. And holy hell, his kitchen had exploded. Literally. Every available surface had a dish on it, and the sink was overflowing with more dirty dishes. Something red had boiled all over the range, and the oven was covered with floury fingerprints. Dylan was mopping up a spill in front of the sink.
“What the hell?” So much for not being angry.
“It was supposed to be a surprise,” Dylan said wearily.
“Oh it is.” Apollo kept his voice dry as desert air he’d come from.
“You didn’t text that you were on the way.” Dylan finished with the mop and set it aside. “I’d planned to have everything all put back—”
“That might take an act of God.” Apollo was still torn between laughter and anger. “What happened?”
“I didn’t want all the fresh food you bought rotting—that was always happening to us growing up. My mom would buy stuff then get too busy with work for the week, and then next thing you know a hundred bucks of groceries was going in the trash. So I thought we’d follow your plan. Get the week’s cooking done.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to.” Dylan scrubbed at his hair which was held back with a red bandanna. “But damn. I’m not sure how you do it. We—”
“We? The girls were helping?”
“Swear to God, if you lecture me over that.” Dylan waved a potholder in Apollo’s face. “I thought them helping would be a good thing. Teach them some math and stuff.”
“Not lecturing.” Apollo couldn’t resist laughing any longer. “Just thinking that you’re a brave guy. I usually rely on my mom—or you, last week—to keep them occupied. No way could I do the big batch cooking and watch them, and I’ve been cooking since I was kid.”
“I can cook. Some.” Dylan glared at the stove.
Apollo went to the fridge, got two bottles of beer out. “Here. Stop looking like you’re going to eat the potholder.”