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He was wearing a gray T-shirt, and the fabric of his shirt stretched gloriously over the span of his broad back.
“I’d hardly call a ham and cheese toastie cooking for you,” Johnny shot back with a wolfish grin.
“Well, no one ever cooks for me, so I appreciate it,” I told him, still hovering in the doorway. “I do most of the cooking at home.”
“Yeah?” He sounded surprised. “Why’s that?”
“Because I’m the only girl,” I mumbled. “And most of the housework falls on my shoulders.”
“So?” Johnny replied, still with his back to me. “Having a vagina doesn’t automatically tie you to a cooker—or a fucking hoover.” He shook his head. “Christ, if I even thought about pulling that sexist shite on my ma, she’d cut my balls off.”
“That’s a healthy way to approach life,” I told him, thrilled by his words.
“That’s the only way to approach life,” he corrected. “We’re in the twenty-first century,” he added. “Not the eighteen hundreds.”
He placed the sandwiches in the toaster and swung around to face me.
“You can sit down, Shannon,” he said gently. “It’s okay.”
“Uh, okay?” Padding over to the island, I moved for one of the stools only to flame in embarrassment when I couldn’t hoist myself up.
I tried again and failed miserably.
“Is there a spring to lower this?”
I knew I was small, but this was just ridiculous. The leather seat of the stool was grazing my rib cage.
“Huh?” Johnny called over his shoulder as he rummaged around in the fridge with a box of cereal tucked under his arm.
“The stool,” I replied, red-faced. “I can’t reach.”
He cast a quick glance over his shoulder and smirked when he noticed my predicament.
“There was,” he explained, walking over to me. He placed a box of Cheerios and a pint of milk on the island. “But Gibsie has a habit of breaking everything he touches.”
Without a hint of warning, Johnny grabbed my hips and lifted me onto the stool.
“He likes to pretend he’s a rocket taking off,” he added, unaware of how affected I was by his touch.
Strolling over to another cupboard, he retrieved two bowls and then pulled open a drawer and grabbed two spoons.
“Fucker broke all six stools within a week of my ma buying them.” He set the spoons and bowls down on the island and smirked at me. “They’re all stuck on full height.”
I arched a brow. “Are you mocking me?”
Johnny grinned. “I would never.” Pushing a bowl and spoon toward me, he added, “Cheerios work for a starter? I have Rice Krispies if you prefer.”
“Cheerios work.”
Johnny settled down on the stool next to mine and reached for the box of cereal. His arm brushed against mine as he poured cereal into both of our bowls, and I shivered again.
“Are you cold?” he asked, turning to look at me.
I shook my head. “I’m okay.”
“You sure?” he asked, pouring milk into both of our bowls.
I nodded. “Are you sure your parents won’t mind that I’m here?”
