The truth is, the cake looks like an absolute mess, and it doesn’t matter.
I just wish my amazing wife knew that.
Her shoulders droop and she looks disappointed in herself. “The coriander lime buttercream doesn’t taste like coriander or lime. It just tastes like vanilla!”
Whoa, I think. “I don’t have any idea what you just said but vanilla sounds just fine for a kid’s party.”
She huffs. “But you don’t understand. When I asked her what flavor she wanted, she said ‘the beach,’ so I was going for a tropical theme. But the coconut flavor doesn’t even come through in the cake, the icing is a disaster, and the fondant palm tree looks like a green turd. The Mom Squad and all their kids will be here in twelve hours and that’s not enough time to fix this cake, make the appetizers, assemble the party favors, fill the piñata and also shower and sleep.”
I nod and smile while she goes on. Meanwhile, I surreptitiously taste a part of the cake that’s fallen down. I don’t know anything about fancy baking, but I do enjoy food, and this cake is hands down her best cake yet. Because of course it is. Because my sweet Millie has made homemade cakes for my birthday and Emily’s birthday every year.
Just like knitting or tasing bad guys, my Millie can do anything she sets her mind to. Molding fondant to look like a palm tree, however, not so much. She’s right. It does look like a green turd.
“Millie, look at me,” I say, cupping her face. “This cake is amazing. Emily doesn’t know what the beach tastes like and none of her little friends are going to care that the lime and coconut and cumin—”
“Coriander,” she corrects.
“Yes, that. None of them are going to ask what happened to the intended flavor profile. So, that leaves the other parents. Is this cake for them, or for Emily?”
Millie smiles sweetly at the thought of our bright-eyed, freckled free spirit, fast asleep upstairs. I’m biased, but I’ve never seen anyone so full of so much love for a child that she radiates with it. Millie closes her eyes for a moment. I can tell she’s bursting with happiness combined with sadness that our baby is turning five. She expresses her love so freely it almost hurts my heart to witness it.
I softly trace the pad of my thumb over one of her closed eyes, feeling her lashes brush against my skin. “Ask yourself how much you actually care what the Mom Squad thinks,” I suggest.
Saying the phrase “Mom Squad” out loud makes me cringe. Mostly good people, but corny name. The Mom Squad refers to the local parenting gr
oup that Millie found online, back when she first started seeking out the company of other moms in the area. Even though I’ve cut back on my hours treating patients to make sure I’m present as much as possible to help out, I could see early on that Millie was going to need extra support. She can be a bit of a hermit if left to her own devices. I don’t mind—I love having my girls all to myself—but the friends she’s made in the group have given us both lots of help. A few of them have even made appearances on the podcast to talk about everything from breastfeeding to sex after childbirth.
“Not at all. Except for Valerie. And Jenny. And Tara. They’re cool,” she replies.
I agree. “See? And none of the little hooligans are gonna care. They’re just going to be grateful for cake and games and entertainment.”
Her eyes go wide. “Oh no. Babe, did you talk to Max about all that?”
Brushing my thumbs against her cheekbones, I place a kiss on the end of her nose. “Your brother is on board, and he’ll be here.”
She bites her lip, looking skeptical. “And you told him about the ruffled pirate shirt?”
I didn’t, but he’ll wear it. Her big lug of a brother will show up and wear the damn pirate shirt and like it, if it means making my Emily and Millie happy. “Yes,” I lie.
Millie squints at me. “Don’t lie.”
“Listen,” I say. “He will do it if he ever wants a chance at asking out Val.” The one single mother in the Mom Squad got Max’s attention when I talked to her on the show about raising a baby on her own after her boyfriend flaked. Max has been bugging us for her phone number ever since.
Millie grins up at me wickedly. “You’re a bigger manipulator than anyone in the Mom Squad.”
I raise one shoulder in acknowledgment, now forgetting what we were talking about because for some reason my hand has traveled down to her shoulder and has sneakily tugged apart the V neck of her nightshirt. My focus is now entirely on the icing smudge on her sternum.
She sees the dark look in my eye and laughs. I pull the fabric away some more, stretching out her shirt, and taking my other hand away from her face to cinch my arm around her waist.
“What are you doing, Doctor?”
A growl escapes me when I attack the icing on her chest, filling my mouth with the taste of vanilla and a hint of citrus. I run my tongue over the sweetness, licking up every drop.
“Prepping for a full physical exam,” I say.
Millie squirms in my arms, her voice squeaking out one last weak protest. “But…the cake.”
“It’s fine,” I grunt, sliding my hand down to grasp a handful of her ass. Her sweetness, her hard work, her sharp mind, and her luscious body still make my cock rigid as hell at the slightest provocation after five-plus years together.