He watched her pretty lips twitch.
She then turned her attention to the last rasher of bacon on her plate, broke it and dropped half in Zeke’s waiting mouth.
With her gaze to Judge, she chewed her own idly even if it was also challengingly.
He didn’t say a word.
Judge was active, and Zeke was active with him.
They’d both work it off.
Though, Judge would have more fun with some of the ways he’d do it.
But giving in meant Chloe would have what she wanted.
Spoiling Judge.
And spoiling Zeke.
And one thing he was all in to do, if it was within his power, was to give Chloe what she wanted.
* * *
A week and a half later…
Judge smelled it on entering his house after work.
Heaven.
He found her and his dog in the kitchen.
Chloe was cooking.
Zeke was idolizing her.
He counted himself lucky when his dog deigned to come to him to say hello when he showed.
But Chloe gave Judge a one finger up motion and said into the room, “I’ll call and arrange the appointments, but I have to talk to Judge before I do that.”
“All right, darling,” her mother said from the speaker of her phone which was sitting on the counter.
Zeke moved out of the way, and Chloe moved in.
He got a peck on the lips and then she said to her mother, “He’s just home. We’ll talk and I’ll text you later. I’ll confirm the rest when I see to it.”
“Sounds good. Tell Judge I said hi.”
It was a little wild that, in his kitchen, over a speaker, Imogen Swan was telling him she said hi.
It was an odd contradiction, but the woman he knew as Genny doing it wasn’t wild at all.
“You can say it yourself.” Chloe had moved to the oven and was peering in. “You’re on speakerphone.”
“Hey, Genny,” he called.
“Hello, Judge. You’re home, I’ll let you two alone. Maybe we can all have dinner soon?”
“That’d be awesome,” Judge said.
“I’ll plan it before you head off to LA,” Chloe said.
“Excellent. Have a good night, you two. Love you, Chloe.”
“Love you more,” Chloe replied, did some kissing noises, then terminated the call.
“Hey, baby,” Judge belatedly greeted.
“Hello, chéri,” she replied.
“What are we having for dinner?” he asked.
She’d moved to the counter where there were the makings of a massive green salad which was not what he was smelling.
“Tartiflette,” she declared. “And salad,” she finished unnecessarily.
He hit the fridge for a beer, asking, “What’s tartiflette?”
“Bacon, potato, and cheese casserole made with onions.”
Okay…
That was what he was smelling.
“Your cooking is gonna kill me,” he bullshitted, since he could dive into that smell headfirst, so he couldn’t wait to shove it into his mouth.
“Regardless that they eat alarming amounts of bread, cheese and butter, the French are exceptionally healthy. This is because their food is fresher, it isn’t overproduced, overprocessed, or injected with things that aren’t good for you that, once consumed, will also swim in your body. And they don’t have as much fast food. Last, they’re not consumed with the idea of low fat, as Americans are, but without fat, the flavor is gone, therefore we cover that up by adding ridiculous amounts of sugar. Many fats are good for you as your body actually needs them. Sugar, it doesn’t need, but we eat a lot of it, and the way food is processed adds even more. To wit, regardless of the contents of this meal, although it isn’t a bowl of spinach, it’s not going to kill you.”
He’d turned from the fridge, beer in hand, to watch her deliver this speech.
And when she was done, he spoke softly.
“I wasn’t complaining, baby. I was teasing. Your cooking is the shit. And for the record, I don’t eat fast food. I also go organic.”
“I perused your refrigerator. I noticed,” she sniffed.
“Are you pissed at me?” he asked, watching her closely.
“No,” she returned sharply. “I’m being snippy because Mom wants me to go to LA in the next couple of weeks for a very long weekend, meaning arrival on Wednesday and leaving Sunday. This so I can be with her while she has meetings with some people so she can decide who’s going to design her wedding gown. And first, I’m trying to be happy for her and in a space this will be fun for all, when I am happy for her. Delighted. Beside myself for her and Bowie. But I’m also…not.”
Shit.
Yeah, she was always pulled both ways with that, and it understandably messed her up.
“I get that,” he replied quietly.
“Adding to that, she wants Sasha there, and since this is a girls’ thing, a family thing, a mother-daughter thing, but also because Sasha has nothing better to do, she’ll be there.”
He kept his mouth shut but nodded.
She carried on.
“And I’m trying to get into another headspace where I won’t be vexed by the fact that Mom will probably buy Sasha’s ticket when I won’t allow her to buy mine, even though she’ll offer, because she’s a mother. I won’t accept, because I have a job and pay my own way considering I’m an adult, and as such, Mom and Dad’s responsibilities for caring for me financially are done. And Sasha has a trust fund, which was given to her, but she also mooches off Mom, Dad and Bowie. A lot. None of my business, as we’ve discussed. It’s still infuriating as all hell.”