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He’s still got the ideal pitcher’s build. Good height, long, lean arms, and a trim waist with a defined lower back. But he has more muscle than he did before he left for Highland, and it looks good on him.
I clear my throat to let him know I’m here and when he turns around, he flashes me a warm smile. “Well, good morning.”
“Morning,” I smile back, making my way over to one of the stools at the counter.
He sets a cup of coffee down in front of me, followed by the cream and sugar. “How’d you sleep?”
“Well,” I shake my head. “You?”
“It was good.” He reaches for his own cup of coffee and takes a sip. “Really good.”
The cup may be big enough to hide his mouth, but I can still see the hint of a grin—that’s how big his smile is.
“Listen, about last night.” May as well get the uncomfortable conversation out of the way now.
He sets his cup down and turns for the stove. “Don’t apologize.”
“Um, okay,” I laugh awkwardly. “I wasn’t going to.”
He looks at me over his shoulder and arches a brow. “No?”
I prepare my coffee just the way I like, then take a sip. For someone who doesn’t like coffee, he sure can make a perfect cup.It’s rich and bold and well, perfect. “I was actually going to say thank you.”
“Oh?” He smirks. “For which exactly, saving you or making you come?”
I am just about to take another sip when I freeze.
“Well?” he says when I haven’t answered.
“Well,” I mimic and he laughs. “If I’m being honest, both.”
“Yeah?” He grins.
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, fighting my own smile. “My momma taught me to always say please and thank you, so I am. Thank you.”
He looks at me with a big, beautiful smile on his face, then turns back to the stove and shuts the fire off. Reaching into the cabinet for a couple of plates, he scoops some bacon and eggs onto one, spins around, and places it down in front of me.
“So…” He hands me a knife and fork and I reach for it. “You cook now?”
“I’ve always been able to cook.” He turns back around and prepares a second plate, then carries it over and sits down next to me. “Just didn’t have a chance to do it when I lived here. You had a chef, so I never had a chance to show off my culinary talents.”
I spear a forkful of eggs and he’s not kidding. He does have skills in the kitchen. The eggs are light, fluffy, and so, so good.
“Well,” I take another bite. “What else can you cook?”
He starts to dig into his eggs, then stops, looking up with a smile. “My mom taught me how to make all her favorites—mofongo, quesitos, arroz con gandules. I’ll make you dinner one night when we get back to the beach and you’ll see just how good I am.”
I can’t help but snort while grabbing a piece of bacon off my plate and taking a bite. It too, is cooked to perfection—not too crispy, with a bit of fat for taste.
“What?” He turns to me, eyes dancing. “Did I say something funny?”
“Someone thinks highly of themselves.”
“Oh, I don’t think,” he waggles his brows. “I know.”
He scoops a spoonful of eggs into his mouth and winks, then turns back to his plate.
“So, when are you headed back?” I take a sip of coffee, ignoring the warm buzz in my chest.
