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“What are you looking for?”
I open what appears to be a pantry cabinet. “Cookie Crisp, Fruit Loops, even Honey Nut Cheerios would be okay.” Other than oatmeal, nothing remotely resembles breakfast food. A plethora of garbanzo beans, various pastas, sauces, and other healthy, un-fun foods awaits.
“I don’t think I have any of those.”
“Not even Honey Nut Cheerios? Frosted Mini-Wheats? Either would do in a pinch. Or Eggo waffles.”
“Uh, no, none of those, either.”
He opens the fridge, rifles around, and holds up a container that looks like cream. “I make a pretty mean omelet.”
Upon closer inspection, it appears to be liquid egg product. I stand behind him while he gathers various items and sets them on the counter. His fridge, much like his cabinets, is full of healthy stuff. Even his jam is made of real fruit. The last item he retrieves happens to be a new jug of orange juice. It isn’t from concentrate, either. It’s fresh squeezed and super pulpy.
I haven’t agreed to the omelet yet, still in search of something better—preferably with high quantities of sugar. Alex, however, already has the frying pan out. The last cabinet I try contains Alex’s candy stash. It’s pathetic at best, consisting of two chocolate bars—both the extra dark, bitter variety—and a bag of Swedish Fish.
I hoist myself onto the counter and shiver as my bare bottom hits the granite. I cross my legs to keep my bits under wraps and tear the bag open.
“Swedish Fish for breakfast?”
I ignore his look of disgust and pop a green one into my mouth, relishing the wonderful, artificial, sugary flavor. “Aren’t you making an omelet? What’s this?” I point at the white gelatinous mixture in the frying pan.
“It’s an egg-white omelet. It’s healthy and it tastes good.” Alex reaches around me for a container. He pops the lid and dumps a load of precooked veggies on top of the snotty looking egg whites. I question whether it’s possible for it to taste good.
“Where’s the bacon? All I see are veggies. Bacon is imperative, or at the very least you should have ham for it to qualify as an omelet. Does it even have cheese? And what’s with whites only? The yolk is the best part.”
I’m trying to get under his skin. I don’t honestly feel this way; he’s obviously one of those healthy eaters. Aside from his love of chocolate dessert indulgences. Maybe I can irritate him enough to take me on the counter. That would be more fun than making omelets.
Alex pulls a container of shredded cheese from the fridge and sprinkles a generous amount on top of the veggies, as well as a variety of fresh herbs. While the omelet cooks, he pours two glasses of his expensive orange juice and passes me one. “Egg whites are full of protein.”
“So is jizz. You don’t see me harvesting yours so I can drink a glass of it.”
Alex is mid orange juice sip; he sprays me and his omelet. At least I’m not wearing my own clothes.
His shock is awesome. He wipes his chin with a dishtowel. “Jesus, Violet.”
“What? It’s true, isn’t it? Your hair grows a million times faster if you swallow instead of spit on a regular basis.”
“I’d be interested to take part in your research study.” Alex puts down his glass, grabs the spatula, and folds the omelet neatly in half. It resembles a huge smile. The pan he’s cooked it in is gigantic. He cuts it in half and offers me a plate.
I hold up the bag of artificially colored, flavored and sweetened fish. “I’m good.”
“After the workout you had last night and this morning, you need more than sugar for breakfast.”
“It’s not like I ran a marathon or anything.”
“Mmm. No. Sex with you is far more enjoyable.”
Alex cuts off a bite and lifts it to my mouth. “Try it. I promise you’ll like it.”
I relent, only because he’s put the effort in and it doesn’t smell bad. Surprisingly, it’s rather tasty. I suspect the fresh basil and sharp cheddar have something to do with it, and whatever else was in those veggies. I polish off what’s on my plate and check the time. If I don’t get a move on, I’m going to be late for work.
In the laundry room, Alex hands me my clothing piece by piece and watches me dress. By the time I’m fully clothed, he’s sporting a massive woody. He dons the shirt I slept in and throws on a pair of sweats—through which the MC is highly visible. Even dressed down, he manages to look smoking hot. I look homeless in sweats.
I was smart enough not to bring my work stuff home last night, so Alex takes me straight to the office. The ride is short, and I’m nervous about the end of the first date good-bye. It’s silly; we’ve had a sleepover, but he’ll be gone for two weeks, so all this giddy excitement could wane. Especially if some other puck bunny catches his eye while he’s on the road.
