The remains of the butter I put in the frying pan is an ominous black sludge. I turn off the stove and grab a dish towel to try and disperse the smoke. Opening the window would also help. Something I am busy doing when Noah enters the room, pulling his tee on over his head. He assesses the situation in no time, moves the overheated pan to a cooler section of the cooktop, and turns on the range hood.
“Did you burn yourself?” he asks, gaze running over me.
“No.” My face is aflame with embarrassment, however. And the slice of bread I put in the bowl with the egg, milk, vanilla, and cinnamon mix is as soggy as can be. I have seen a swamp hold itself together better than this. “I was going to make breakfast.”
“French toast, huh?”
“Yeah. But I got distracted.”
“It happens. What were you thinking about?”
“I’d rather not say.” I am not still blushing redder than a baboon’s ass. That’s someone else who looks disturbingly like me.
The way he just grins.
“Oh, my god. Your ego…I could have been thinking about baby ducks.”
“You mean ducklings?”
“Yes. Though you knew what I meant, so the words worked and there was no need to correct me.”
He nods. “You’re right. I apologize. And baby ducks are pretty great.”
“Damn right they are. Fluffy little miracles of nature.”
I’m wearing a tank and a pair of pajama pants. While he’s back in his black jeans with the top button undone. All of the hard lines of him in the morning sun is like a work of art. The stubble on his jaw and his dark mussed hair. He stretches and his tee slides up some. The line of hair leading down from his belly button disappearing into his pants sure is tempting. It’s like a siren song. So damn hard to look away from.
“This is just like the time I got punched in the face during training because I thought I heard your car coming down the street.”
He narrows his eyes on me. “You said you didn’t remember what distracted you.”
“I was hardly going to admit it, was I?”
“Hmm.” He smiles and looks around. “Where’s your dog this morning?”
“Auggie is busy sunbathing in the backyard. He has no job. He doesn’t even pay taxes. Life for him is good.”
Without a word, Noah backs me up some, grabs my hips, and sits me on the counter. A sweet single perfect kiss is placed on my forehead. Just the one. Then he places my cup of coffee in my hand before turning to make his own. And as soon ashe’s caffeinated, he takes over cooking us breakfast. Which is probably for the best.
“I’m usually competent in the kitchen,” I say, taking a sip. “Setting things on fire is not the norm. Just so you’re aware.”
“Okay.”
Good to be able to have this time with him. It’s almost ten o’clock on a Monday. But my work is flexible, and I’m ahead with my hours. Noah being here is everything. True happiness would be waking up to this every morning. Him in my bed and making himself at home in my house. I haven’t lived with anyone in a very long time. Not since Grandma. How weird would it be to not be alone?
And talk about getting ahead of myself. Time to enjoy the moment and be content in the now. There’s no need to define this situationship or whatever it might be. Though I do wonder if we’re officially dating. It sort of feels like we might be. Hard to trust my judgment, however, given the only serious boyfriend I had turned out to be a psycho killer.
Noah has the frying pan back in action and things cooking in no time. French toast turning a golden brown. Plates, silverware, and maple syrup ready and waiting. He really is a professional. You can see it in the expert way he wields a spatula. When he cuts another thick slice of bread (Grandma believed in buying whole loaves of bread), it’s obvious how comfortable he is with a knife in his hand.
“Let’s talk about us,” he says out of nowhere. Just basically picking a topic of conversation out of the clear blue sky.
“Us?”
“Yeah.” The man doesn’t even make eye contact with me. Just carries on cooking like we’re discussing the weather. “I like having sex with you, Sid. Do you like having sex with me?”
“Um. Yes?”
“You’re not sure?”
