So I didn’t.

But this weekend Brock decided would be different, he talked to me about it, asked me if I was comfortable with it, I wasn’t (exactly) and told him so but also told him I’d give it a shot.

So Friday night was his with his boys. So was Saturday. But Saturday night, I came over and made (at Brock’s request since he wolfed down three quarters of it when I made it for him) my Mexican tortilla casserole (though, obviously, since Brock liked it so much, I doubled it) and this was followed by hot fudge sundaes with my homemade hot fudge sauce.

And after, I spent the night.

It was a compliment when the boys dug into my food with the same relish as their father.

And it was a relief when they took my spending the night in stride.

And now it was Sunday. The kids were being picked up by their mother at five and Brock told me that Olivia had long since informed him she wanted the kids returned to her fed and watered so we were going to have a big late lunch after which I was serving homemade carrot cake.

A cake I was decorating at that present moment even though it was just for us.

This was something I had to do, it was a compulsion. Every cake deserved to be pretty, even if the decoration was simple.

And considering the thousands of baked goods I’d decorated, it took me the same amount of time to decorate a cake as it did for most people simply to frost them so it really didn’t matter.

So I smiled into Joel’s blue eyes and answered his question with, “Yeah.”

He looked at his brother, Rex looked at him then they looked back at me.

Then Rex asked, “Do you do cakes like The Cake Boss? ”

I shook my head and went back to piping while explaining, “My shop is small, I only have two girls who help me with the baking and decorating, I’m not set up for that kind of operation and my cake mission doesn’t include extravagance, just the drive to make every cake I bake pretty.”

“Cakes don’t need to be pretty, they just need to taste good,” Joel informed me as his Dad moved up the steps.

My eyes went from Brock to his son whereupon I shared, “In order to decorate a cake, you have to make more frosting which means the cake has more frosting which means the eater gets to eat more frosting so, agreed, cakes need to taste good but decorated cakes, being decorated with loads of extra frosting, taste even better.”

Brock circled Joel’s chest with an arm, tugged him playful rough back into his torso and muttered, “Can’t argue with that, Joey.”

“Nope,” Joel agreed, his eyes on the cake and looking into their hungry depths I knew my work was done as clearly his horizons had been expanded.

At that point there came a knock on the door. I looked to Brock and saw his brows draw together and his head turn in that direction then he let his son go and sauntered away. I went back to piping.

“Carrot cake’s my favorite,” Rex shared, his voice not hiding his anticipation and the sound of it made me grin.

I knew this. It was his father’s favorite too. This was why a homemade one was sitting on the counter.

“Good,” I muttered.

“What the f**k?” I heard Brock growl, my head went up and both boys’ necks twisted to look toward the door.

“Nice,” I heard a woman say then go on, “I’ve got to get the boys early. Can you get their stuff together? I’ll be waiting in the car.”

“Come again?” Brock asked.

“I have to get the boys early,” she repeated. “I’ll be waiting in the car. Tell them to hurry.”

“Olivia, you don’t get them until five,” Brock stated and, already tense at the knowledge my mind was refusing to believe, that Brock’s ex was at the door sounding like the bitch I suspected she was from what I’d learned from Brock (and Fern and Laura and Jill), I went tenser when this was irrevocably confirmed and it was then I noticed both the boys were frozen to the point of looking calcified on their stools.

“I know that, Slim, but today I need to pick them up early,” she retorted.

“You need to pick them up early, you tell me you need to pick them up early; we discuss it and make plans. You don’t show at my f**kin’ door and tell me to get them packed.”

“Oh for God’s sake!” she snapped. “It isn’t a big deal. Why do you make everything a big deal? It’s only two hours. Just get them to get their shit packed and I’ll be waiting in the car.”

“Woman, I get four days a month with my boys, two hours shaved off that is a big deal,”

Brock returned on a dangerous rumble.

“There you go, making it a big deal,” she shot back.

“They haven’t eaten,” Brock told her.

“Dade will take them out to get some burgers or something later,” she replied.

“No, Dade won’t. We got plans. You’ll come back in two hours or I’ll drop them at your house at five or whatever-the-fuck time you’ll be home to look after your sons.”

“You can do whatever you have planned next time you see them. I’m here now, I went out of my way to come and get them and I don’t have time to discuss this.”

“You went out of your way to come and get your boys?” Brock asked, his dangerous rumble getting more dangerous.

“Jesus, Slim, just tell them to get packed.”

“All right, you are not hearing me and you need to listen, we have plans. The cake’s baked and the boys are lookin’ forward to it. They’re gonna eat it and then they’ll go back when it’s time for them to go back.”

“The cake’s baked?”

Uh-oh.

Brock didn’t answer that question. Instead he ordered, “Go, I’ll bring the boys to your place at seven.”

“What cake’s baked?” she asked. “You baked a cake?” This was incredulous.

Apparently, Rex nor Joel had shared about me.

I looked back at the boys at the same time their heads, in unison, slowly turned to me.

They looked terrified.

Oh man.

“Olivia, Christ, step back,” Brock growled.

Oh man!

“What cake, Slim?” she asked, her voice rising as well as getting closer then on a shout,

“What cake? ”

Then there was a moment of silence, a muttered, “Fuck,” from Brock and my eyes went to the living room a half a second before a woman appeared at the foot of the stairs to the kitchen.