Chelsea

I'm standing in the kitchen looking out the window drinking a cup of coffee, when the back door swings open. Jake strolls in, sweaty from a run, shirtless, tossing a towel over his shoulder. I keep my eyes firmly on the dough.

"Oh — you're back," I say, pressing the dough a little harder than necessary. "There's lemonade in the fridge if you want some. I'm just about to start the dinner prep before Caleb gets home."