Aslan

N o one multitasked like my husband. Partly dressed, face foamed with shaving cream, he dragged a razor over his jaw while updating his boss on the case he and Frawley had landed the previous day.

He’d inserted an earbud in one ear so he could hear Edwards’ side of the conversation without putting it on speaker, and I’d been warned to keep myself in check if we were sharing a bathroom.

I moved around him, brushing my teeth and copping a feel down his unbuttoned pants whenever he was too distracted to stop me.

In my defense, I couldn’t help myself. Since we started dating, I couldn’t keep my hands off him.

The taste of his skin did something to me on a molecular level, and when he gave in and let himself ride the sensations of lust and love, it was sensory overload.

That morning, I earned a record number of sneers because of my lack of self-restraint, but Quaid wasn’t as upset as he let on. He’d have lingered in bed if a child’s life wasn’t at stake.

Snagging a handful of his bubble ass, I whispered in his unadorned ear, “I’ll make coffee and food. Don’t be long. ”

“Take the cat.” He deposited the ball of fur into my arms, returning to his call. “Yes, sir. I’m here… No. District police are taking care of that. Yes, sir.”

Oscar had been pacing along the counter, meowing for breakfast, purposefully knocking things over, and continuously getting in Quaid’s way as he tried to get ready for work. On a typical Saturday, Oscar came first, and the cat had a sixth sense about these things. He was not happy at being ignored.

Quaid, taking a case on what should have been the first day of his parental leave, was a prime example of his passion for the job. How could I fault him for caring?

“Come on, you little rascal. Daddy’s busy saving the world. You’ll get yourself in trouble at this rate. Do you want canned food?”

Oscar yowled and squirmed until I put him down and shooed him from the bathroom.

“Make him eat the rest of the one in the fridge,” Quaid hissed. “No, sir. We haven’t yet. The judge didn’t sign off on the warrant until after nine, so it wasn’t delivered until close to ten. Hopefully this morning.”

Oscar darted between my legs and back into the bathroom. Much to the cat’s dismay, I scooped him up and wedged the wiggly pest under my arm. I pecked my husband’s cheek and slipped out the door.

Quaid kicked it closed behind me as he explained to Edwards about the camera footage he’d assigned Ruiz and me to view once the Soccerplex owner delivered it. This after a five-minute session where he’d pleaded to stay on the case when Edwards insisted on finding someone else.

I started a pot of coffee, fed the demanding cat, and puzzled over food options, keeping in mind that when Quaid dove deep into a case, he rarely remembered to eat.

His abject refusal to slow down and fuel his body had diminished with therapy, but it wasn’t gone.

His hunger cues weren’t like everyone else’s, and he could subsist for days on coffee alone if no one was there to remind him otherwise.

I settled on waffles—Quaid’s healthier version of waffles.

We’d come to a compromise a few months back after he accidentally-on-purpose forgot to buy my favorite breakfast treat when grocery shopping three weeks in a row.

After an excruciating conversation, we agreed that I would give up my highly processed frozen chocolate chip treat in exchange for purchasing a waffle iron and making waffles from scratch.

It didn’t sound so bad at the time. Alas, I had endured a four-hour lecture on how to use the waffle iron, how to clean the waffle iron, where to store the waffle iron, and of course, a list of Quaid-approved recipes he swore he would never wrinkle his nose at.

They lived in a pristine folder in the recipe drawer.

So far, he’d kept his promise. Not a single sneer.

Were the waffles as good as the ones I got at the grocery store in the frozen food aisle? Surprisingly, yes, but they had taken some tweaking. Quaid’s folder of recipe options had personal notations written down the side, adjustments I’d made to improve on the overly healthy versions he preferred.

By the time Quaid landed in the kitchen, I’d plated him a stack of oatmeal banana walnut waffles and put them on the table with his disgusting sugar-free syrup.

For mine, I substituted flour instead of oatmeal and chocolate chips instead of nuts, drowning them in pure maple bliss.

To this day, Quaid had yet to lecture me on the minor modifications I made to my meal.

So, we ate better food, I got my chocolate chips and liquid sugar kick, and he no longer fought me on eating breakfast.

Mostly.

“That’s a lot of food.” He examined the mountain of five fluffy waffles I’d piled on his plate .

“You have a busy day ahead. You need to fuel that big, beautiful brain.” I handed him a steaming mug of coffee. “Eat what you can. I don’t expect miracles.”

He sat and dug in, mind far away, no doubt mentally compiling lists of everything he needed to do. Now and again, he checked incoming messages on his phone, scowling as he typed responses. Jordyn likely. Possibly Edwards.

“The search team has been out since sunup,” he said after one particular message landed. He glanced at the window, where an angle of morning light slanted across the counter.

“Anything yet?”

“No. The constables finished canvassing yesterday evening, but not a single neighbor recalls seeing Crow on Tuesday night, nor did they report any unusual behavior from the Davises.”

“What did Edwards say?”

He chuckled, a reaction I wasn’t expecting. “His actual words when I told him I took a spontaneous case instead of going on parental leave were, ‘Of course you did because even with a baby halfway out of the birthing canal, you can’t fucking stop. Jesus Christ, Valor, why am I not surprised?’”

I laughed. “Well, at least he didn’t tell you no.”

“He tried but gave up fast.” Quaid checked the time. “Shit. Can you call Bryn and see how she’s doing? I’ve been praying for the contractions to start, and now I want the baby to hold off for a few more days. I’m not ready.”

“I’ll call her.” Our surrogate was staying with her brother, who lived locally, saving us from having to make a three-hour drive to Bryn’s hometown when she went into labor. “What time should I expect the footage from the Soccerplex? ”

He stabbed three more pieces of waffle, stuffing them into his mouth before pushing his plate away.

It was shortly past seven, and his urgency to leave was showing.

Swallowing, he drained his coffee and said, “I’ll call the guy when I’m on the road, press him, and hopefully, it will be ready before nine. Costa’s helping you?”

“He said he would. We’re meeting at his place. Tia had a hair appointment she didn’t want to miss, and he was supposed to be off work this weekend, so he needs to watch the girls.”

Quaid pushed away from the table, fixing his tie and smoothing his shirtfront.

I collected dishes and loaded the dishwasher.

He’d polished off three of the five waffles, which I considered a win.

Quaid didn’t have a huge appetite on a good day, so I didn’t nag him about the remaining two.

Three was a success. Three was a world better than the fights we used to have over food when it took an iron will to convince him to eat half a piece of dry toast.

“I’ve got to run. I’ll call you. It will be chaotic once the family finds out Crow is missing.”

I followed him to the front door and handed him the car keys once he’d slipped his shoes on. He patted his body, checking that he had everything. Holstered weapon, credentials, wallet, keys, and phone.

“You’ve already messed up your hair.” I tamed the defiant pieces and took his face between my palms, kissing him soundly. His clean-shaven jaw was silky smooth and enticing. I lingered, and he didn’t pull away until…

“Shit,” he said against my mouth.

“What?”

“I was going to rewash all the baby clothes today. I got that special detergent I read about. The baby one. It’s gentler than the one we use. Reduces the risk of irritating their sensitive skin. Dammit.” He checked the time on his watch, a gift from his father at Christmas.

“It’ll get done. I’ll start it when I’m home later.”

“The stuff in our hospital bag needs to be rewashed as well. And the blankets in the crib and the ones in the wicker basket beside the crib. And the bedding. Shit, and all the diapers. They’re on a shelf below the change table.”

I internally groaned at the mention of diapers.

After reading an article in a new age parenting magazine, Quaid decided disposable diapers were bad for the environment and bought a stack of cloth diapers instead.

Considering the man had zero experience with newborn shit explosions, I’d been unable to persuade him to change his mind.

I gave his radical decision one week before he realized his mistake and resorted to using disposables like the rest of the sane population.

He spun to the door, then spun back. “Oh, and Amelia. Can you call Amelia? She’s planning the meet-the-baby shower thing and wanted to review the menu details and games or something.

She wants to do it at your mother’s house.

Please suggest a restaurant. We don’t need anything complicated.

That way, no one has to worry about cooking.

Plus, I don’t want silly games. A short meet and greet with friends and family is enough once the baby is here. ”

“At a restaurant?” It wasn’t often Quaid suggested dining out.

“Yes.”

“You know my mother won’t like that.”

He whimpered. “I know, but Az… She’s… overwhelming.”

That was an understatement.

“I’ll call Amelia.”

“And—”

“Quaid.” I pressed a finger to his mouth. “You’re going to be late, and Jordyn will have your head. Everything will be okay. Go to work. ”

“You’ll start the laundry?”

“If I get a chance.”