While I’m preparing the pancakes, Callie, who’s supposed to be in charge of the scrambled eggs, is bent over the kitchen island, elbows resting on the granite top, one leg crossed in front of the other, reading a newspaper someone must have brought with them yesterday. She’s in pink skinny jeans and a black tank top and she’s playing with some loose strands of hair falling free from her ponytail. Sexy as fuck, as always. As I return to the food she’s distracting me from, Callie comes up behind me, her soft hands gently on my hips and her cheek pressed against my shoulder blade. “Joe, this is so weird.” She wraps her arms around my waist. “What’s weird?” “You and me – here like this.” I switch off the stove and turn to her. Every time I look at her I find it hard to believe she’s mine, I’ll never fail to be amazed by that detail. Or fail to appreciate it. Moving her back toward the island, I lift her up to sit her on it. “Is that a good weird or a bad weird?”
