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NOAH

Practice was tough, and I groan, grabbing my duffle from the passenger seat and hopping out of the truck. We’ve been in regular season for a month, and I’m trying to be extra conscious of that work/life balance despite my hectic schedule.

When I enter the front door, my senses are overwhelmed with a variety of sweet smells, which can only mean one thing.

Charlotte is stress baking.

After dropping the duffle by the door, I wander to the kitchen, my suspicions confirmed by dozens of muffins spread all over the island, kitchen table, and every square inch of countertop.

Charlotte closes the oven and turns towards me, wearing a cute little apron, mitt on her hand, holding another muffin tray. “Hey, honey.”

“Whatcha doing there?” I ask, noting the dusty white powder all over her face.

“Baking muffins,” she says, smiling wide, setting the tray on a cooling rack.

“For the entire neighborhood?” I ask with a smirk, and her narrowed eyes find mine.

“It’s relaxing.” She picks one up and hands it to me. “And tasty.”

Our eyes lock, and I bite into it, adding a breathy moan for her benefit. “ Quasi meglio del sesso, soffione .”

“Translate?”

I chuckle. “I said it’s better than sex.”

Her lips part. “Well, I would hope not!”

“It’s a compliment,” I assure her, finishing my muffin. “So what’s got you all worked up?”

“Nothing.” Her forced smile deepens as she returns to a mixing bowl and starts all over again. “Everything is fine. Perfect. Great. Wonderful.”

I narrow my eyes. “ Tesoro, your relaxing habit is stressing me out.”

“Fine,” she says, exasperated. “The twins are coming tomorrow for their fall break.”

“And?”

“And what if my mother is right?” She cracks an egg in the bowl. “What if it’s a disaster?”

Sadness surrounds me that Charlotte’s own mother has her thinking she can’t do this.

“You’ve been helping take care of them their whole lives,” I remind her. “Next week will be fine. And I’ll help as much as I can.”

“But I don’t want it to get in the way of your work stuff,” she says after cleaning off her hands, now measuring vanilla extract.

“It won’t.” I stride across the kitchen to place a hand on her back because I know better than to stop her when she’s panic baking. “Just relax.”

She side-eyes me. “When in the history of history has a woman successfully relaxed after being told to relax?”

“Everything will be fine.” I chuckle, kissing the side of her head, and back away towards our bedroom. “The only concern you should have is them suffering from muffin overdoses.” She picks one up and chucks it at me, and I catch it, taking a big bite. “Looks like I’m your first victim.”