Trophy Wife by Bethany Lopez

Author:Bethany Lopez [Lopez, Bethany]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bethany Lopez

20

Noah

As I pulled into the apartment complex, I had to double check the address to make sure I’d put it in the GPS correctly.

The place was run down, which Summer had mentioned, and the area of town wasn’t the best.

I parked in the guest parking spot, just as she’d told me, and grabbed the cake I’d bought from the passenger seat before I got out of my car and followed her instructions to take the stairs and turn left to her apartment.

Once I got to the correct number, I shifted the cake to one hand and knocked, my head swiveling as I checked out my surroundings.

Seconds later, the door opened, and Summer was standing before me, beaming up at me in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt.

“Hey, come on in,” she said happily, stepping to the side to let me in.

I surveyed the room as she shut the door behind me and thought, Okay, this makes much more sense.

The living space was bright and cheerful, with lots of yellows, pinks, and baby blues. The walls were adorned with canvas paintings. There were silhouettes of women walking the streets of Paris, Rome, and London, as well as prints of daisies, sunflowers, and seascapes.

There was a lot going on, but for some reason, it all worked beautifully. It is quintessentially Summer.

“I brought a lemon cake,” I told her, lifting the box in my arms as evidence.

“Oh, yum, you can set it on the counter,” she said, gesturing toward the kitchen, which was right off the living room. It was an open concept, with a long counter separating the two rooms.

There were two doors, other than the entrance, one off the living room, and one off the kitchen. Since Summer told me it was a one-bedroom apartment, I figured one of the doors led to her room and the other was some sort of closet or pantry.

“It smells great in here,” I said, breathing in scents of garlic, oregano, and something else I couldn’t quite place. “What are you making?”

“It’s my meatloaf, along with mashed potatoes and some roasted brussels sprouts,” Summer said, her tone somewhat shy.

“Wow, really? That sounds fantastic.”

“Why don’t you have a seat while I finish up,” she suggested, pointing to one of the stools on the side of the counter.

I put down the cake box and took a seat, just as Summer got a beer out of the fridge, opened it, and placed in in front of me.

“Thanks,” I said, taking a sip. “So, what makes this your specialty?”

“It’s one of the only things my mom taught me to make. At least, the basic recipe. Over the years I’ve tweaked it and added ingredients until I got it the way I liked it. And now she usually asks me to make it for her every few months. It makes a few portions, so she can have leftovers, which she likes.”

“So, you still see her a lot?”

“Probably not as much as I should, but I get over there when I can.

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