Page 23 of The Unexpected Lineup (Lost in Translation #2)

MEATBALL WANTS OATMEAL COOKIES

HAISLEY

N ot wanting to waste the entire day in bed, I take the stairs slowly, one hand gripping the railing as I try to shake off the sluggishness weighing me down.

Pregnancy exhaustion is no joke. The nausea from earlier has mostly faded, but it drained me.

My body has been wrung out and left to dry.

I could sleep for days and still not feel fully rested.

A familiar scent drifts through the open downstairs space, wrapping around me like a hug. Chicken, garlic, and something herby. My stomach, which has been protesting at the thought of food since movie popcorn yesterday, gives a low growl.

In the kitchen, Rasmus stands at the stove, stirring a pot with practiced ease.

He moves with confidence, completely at home in the space while singing along to ABBA’s greatest hits playing from his phone on the counter.

His gray sweatpants hang low on his hips, and the sleeves of his fitted red flannel are pushed to his elbows, showcasing his tattooed, muscular forearms. I take a few seconds to admire him.

It’s unfair how good he looks doing something so mundane .

But my stomach reminds me that ogling must wait.

“You made soup?” My voice comes out scratchy.

“Chicken noodle. I thought it might help.”

“That’s very sweet of you.”

What I want to say is that no other man outside my family has made me feel this cherished. But I don’t.

He shrugs and smiles bashfully, ladling the soup into a bowl. The warmth from the dish seeps into my palms the second I take it from him. “Thanks, Rasmus I-don’t-even-know-your-middle-name Westerholm.”

He leans a hip against the counter, those damn sexy arms crossed, watching me with quiet amusement. “Our friend Google couldn’t answer that question?”

“I didn’t check that far.”

“I actually have two.”

“Of course you do. Let’s hear them.”

His lips twitch. “Rasmus Viktor Mikael Westerholm.”

I carefully sip the soup and hum happily as the flavors hit my taste buds. This is exactly what I needed. “Is there any special meaning behind those names?”

“My grandpa was Viktor, and my dad was Michael, but my mom wanted the Swedish spelling with a k instead of ch.”

“That’s sweet,” I murmur, savoring another spoonful. “This is amazing. Thank you.”

His gaze lingers on me, the stretch of silence between us somehow easy instead of awkward. I’ve never had such an easy silence with someone who wasn’t my family or friends .

“What’s your full name?” Rasmus asks.

“Haisley Hilda Lavigne.”

“Hilda?”

“My first name was supposed to be Paisley, but my mother was so exhausted after giving birth that she called me Haisley instead. And it stuck. Hilda was my dad’s mother, so don’t you dare be mean.”

He chuckles. “I would never. But it’s such an interesting story behind the name of an interesting person.”

I give him a pointed look. “Flattery won’t help you, mister.”

“Worth a shot.”

That’s when I notice a bowl next to the oven filled with batter. A wooden spoon rests inside the dish, and a parchment-lined cookie tray sits nearby.

“You bake?”

His cheeks get some color on them following the question. Is he blushing? No, it can’t be. A slow smile spreads across my face. “Rasmus, are you blushing?”

“No,” he mumbles, giving me his back. “It’s warm in here.”

“Uh-huh. Let me ask again: you bake?”

He rubs the back of his neck and grumbles, “I’m making oatmeal cookies.”

I blink. “You…bake?”

“Yeah, quite often, actually.”

“Seriously? Is there anything you don’t do? ”

His eyes flick to me, guarded, but there’s the smallest hint of amusement under his frustration of my teasing. “I hate doing my taxes, laundry, and changing the oil in my car.”

“That’s oddly specific.”

He shrugs. “A few examples of things I leave for other people to do.”

“Smart man. So why baking?”

“It helps me relax. And it reminds me of my childhood spent with my grandparents. Money was tight and my abuela loved baking, so she often made our favorite treats instead of buying them from the bakery.”

Something about the admission makes my chest tighten. “I love that. Are these American oatmeal cookies, or do you have some secret Swedish recipe?”

“These are thin, crispy oatmeal cookies from Scandinavia. You’ll never think of oatmeal cookies the same way after you try one.”

I arch a brow at his challenging tone. “That good?”

“Guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

The cabin is quiet except for the crackling of the fire in the stone fireplace and the cutlery touching our plates. The wood smoke scent mixes with the lingering aroma of Pasta Alfredo Rasmus cooked for us. And for a change, I feel settled, warm, and happy.

Rasmus sits lazily in his chair across from me, a beer bottle dangling loosely from his fingers. It took some convincing for him to drink it as he thought it would be unfair to me. I don’t mind if he drinks while I’m pregnant.

His long hair is still damp from his shower. It curls slightly at the ends, and tonight’s one of the only times I have seen it down. It’s unfair how good Rasmus looks with so little effort.

Not to forget the show I had earlier when he chopped that damn wood.

His strong hands effortlessly gripped the axe handle, veins flexing as he raised it above his head.

The muscles in his tattooed arms and shoulders coiled, a perfect display of his strength as he brought the blade down in one fluid motion.

The sharp crack of splitting wood rang through the air, but I could only focus on how his body moved.

I was about to combust when beads of sweat slid down his handsome face, tracing a slow path through his beard.

It vanished under his white T-shirt, where I knew I’d find even more ink decorating his skin.

That damn cotton clung to him and teased the sculpted lines of his incredible body.

And just when I thought it couldn’t get any hotter, he lifted his shirt to wipe his face.

Haisley, please stop it. No fantasizing about your baby daddy. No, no, no.

I push my empty plate aside. “So, how did your parents meet?”

He tips his beer back for a sip and sets it down after. “My mom was traveling around Asia with friends, and my dad was their surf instructor in Bali. One thing led to another, and here I am.”

“So, you’re part world traveler, part surfer spawn. That explains a lot,” I tell him. “Your parents’ story sounds romantic. ”

“Or reckless. It depends on who you ask.”

“Maybe a little bit of both. But it reminds me of how we created our little Meatball.”

His fingers tap against the bottle, eyes distant. “That’s such a depressive thought. I don’t want to follow their footsteps.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he says. “You know, I wondered a lot…what if he had lived?”

“Your dad died when you were a baby?”

“Yeah, he got into some accident in Bali and passed away before having a chance to meet me, his only son,” he sighs. “I never knew him. But sometimes I think about how different things would’ve been.”

I understand him in a way I wish I didn’t. “Yeah. I get that.”

His gaze flicks to me over the table. “You do?”

“I was four when my mother died in a boating accident.” I take a deep breath.

“I don’t remember much about her. Just little flashes.

She smelled like this one specific brand of sunscreen and wild jasmine.

I remember her humming melodies around the house and how she never finished a chocolate bar without offering my dad a piece.

Small, somewhat meaningless things similar to that.

But mostly, every other detail about her is gone from my memory. ”

Rasmus watches me, something unreadable in his expression.

“My dad remarried,” I continue. “To Gloria. You’ve met her, right?”

“Yeah, I met her at the party. ”

“Well, she was my nanny first, but then she became my stepmom pretty quickly,” I shrug. “And honestly? She’s amazing. The best thing that could’ve happened to us. Gloria raised me, and she’s always loved me like my brothers, her biological children.”

“But you still wonder.”

“Exactly. I wonder what life would’ve been if my mother had been here instead of her. If my biological parents had stayed together and my brothers were never born…” That thought alone makes a tear fall down my face.

Rasmus shifts, his chair scraping against the floor as he stands. A second later, he’s crouching next to me.

“Hey.” His voice is low and steady. “It’s okay. Let it out.”

I shake my head, swiping at my damp cheeks. “I?—”

“I know.”

“I wish she was here to experience all of this.” I motion to my slightly swollen stomach.

“Everything is going to be okay.” He gets up, offering his hand to me. “Let’s sit on the couch.”

A fresh wave of tears threatens to spill over. His arms come around me instantly, solid and warm. I press my face against his shoulder, tears wetting his shirt. His hand rubs slow circles over my back to help me calm down.

“It’s weird, isn’t it? Missing someone you don’t remember,” Rasmus whispers.

“Yeah.”

The room around us feels heavier, the weight of our shared grief settling between us. I blink rapidly and press my palms to my eyes. “God, I hate this.”

Rasmus exhales deeply, his gaze dropping to my stomach and coming up again to meet my eyes. “I don’t know what it’s like to have a mom who’s there,” he admits. “But I do know what it’s like to wish for something that can’t be.”

“What helped you to move forward?”

“Time. I also realized that I was unbelievably lucky to have my maternal grandparents. They were there when my mom couldn’t be.”

I sniffle, my voice small. “What happened to her?”

“She eventually got sober and moved to one of those farm communes. The last time she called was to ask for some money because she saw me on the news.”

“Oh Rasmus,” I pull back from him, my eyes burning again.

“She doesn’t deserve your tears, sweetness,” his hand cups my cheek, his thumb brushing away a single tear.

That nickname.

I don’t know who moves first, but suddenly we are only a few inches apart. My breath catches as his eyes flick to mine, searching, and then he leans in further.

The second his lips touch mine, the familiar warmth floods through me. The kiss is soft and slow, but there’s something deeper beneath it. Something that makes my stomach flutter, full of butterflies.

But then I pull back abruptly. “Sorry, but we can’t. I?—”

Rasmus blinks, his jaw tightening and he nods. He shifts back, giving me the space I need. “Okay. ”

I swallow, still feeling the ghost of his lips on mine. “I need us to stay friends. Doing more could ruin that.”

He nods again but doesn’t look away. And for a moment, I swear I see something in his eyes, something that makes my chest ache.

Trying to lighten the mood, I smile and say in a softer tone, “Meatball wants oatmeal cookies.”

The mention of our unborn child’s silly nickname has the exact effect I expected, softening Rasmus’ expression. “Then I better get them some.”

I stand and grab our plates for something to do. “I’ll clean up.”

He nods and goes to get the cookies, leaving me to catch my breath. But all my mind is screaming is that I should be back in his arms because nothing about that felt wrong. Only right.