The timer on my phone goes off, signaling the need to go check on the cake I’m making Emma for dessert tonight. She groans at the sound, and I find myself echoing it, reluctant to end our kisses. And then I remember that we don’t have to stop.
“Come on,” I say, pulling back to reach down and grab her hand. She laces her fingers with mine easily enough. “Maybe you can use those bail bondsperson powers of persuasion to talk me out of a piece of cake before dinner.”
Her nose crinkles as she studies my face, head tilted to the side. “With or without frosting? Wait! What kind of frosting are you using? You didn’t even tell me what cake you made me.”
“I guess you’ll have to wait and see, won’t you?”