She may be pretty, but she sure is a handful.
After quickly getting dressed, I leave my room, halting in my tracks when I see the state of the kitchen. Noelle stands at the stove, her cheeks and hair streaked with flour. Bowls and mixing cups litter the counter, and every surface is dusted with sugar. Pans are stacked precariously high in the sink, and the floor is a patchwork of spills.
It looks as if a tornado tore through the place.
I drag my hand across my mouth, taking in the chaos. “God, this place is a disaster.”
“Oh good, you’re awake.” Noelle beams, oblivious to my sour mood. “I just finished your breakfast. You should eat before it gets cold.” She pulls a plate from the cupboard and sets it on the only free space on the counter. “I hope you don’t mind that I used the kitchen. When I woke up and saw that the snow was still falling, I wanted to do something nice to thank you forputting up with me for a little longer. I promise I’ll leave as soon as the storm lets up.” She tugs her bottom lip between her teeth.
The biting comments I’d prepared dissipate before I can form the words. I might’ve told her she could only stay until morning, but is she genuinely worried I’ll send her out into the raging storm?
The kitchen’s a mess, but she meant well by doing something nice. Another mark on my growing guilty conscience. Reckon I could be less of an ass, given her situation. She expected to spend the holidays alone, enjoying the sun, not being stuck with a cranky man for who knows how long.
“You can stay until the storm passes,” I assure her.
Her face visibly relaxes, and she gives me a big smile. “I really appreciate it.” She motions to the table in the corner. “Take a seat. I’ll bring your food over.”
I do as she asks, sitting on one of the barstools, and seconds later, she puts a plate in front of me with several strips of bacon and a stack of pancakes drizzled with syrup. “I hope everything tastes okay.” She shoots me a wary gaze as she wrings her hands. “I made my famous homemade hot chocolate and whipped up banana-cinnamon pancakes. I used what you had on hand and a few things I brought, but I didn’t have a recipe for those, so I improvised. Oh, and I totally forgot to flip the bacon while mixing the batter, so it might be extra crispy.”
Judging by the blackened edges,crispyis an understatement. And the pancakes look dense enough to double as hockey pucks. I stab one with my fork and take a bite. The texture is chewy, full of lumps of cinnamon and banana chunks that stick to my teeth, but I swallow it anyway.
Noelle lingers nearby, watching me with a hopeful expression, so I offer a tight smile.
“They’re good,” I choke out.
She lets out a shaky sigh of relief. “Phew. I’m so glad. I usually eat frozen dinners or order takeout, so I’m not much of a cook.”
If anyone else had made these pancakes, I’d have told them they were shit and thrown the things away. But I can’t bring myself to do that—not with Noelle looking at me with pride shining in her doe eyes. So I do the only logical thing I can and take another big bite, chasing it down with the steaming cup of hot chocolate she left on the table. Surprisingly, it’s delicious, with a touch of vanilla and peppermint. It seems holiday drinks are her specialty—breakfast, not so much.
“Your hot cocoa is really good,” I say between sips.
“It’s a family recipe,” she beams.
I frown when I glance around and notice she hasn’t set a place for herself. “Aren’t you going to eat?”
“I could only find a small pan, so I made yours first. I was going to make some for myself before I shower, if that’s okay.” There she goes again, making me feel like an asshole for how short I was with her last night.
“That’s fine.” I look past her, spotting a banana and the cinnamon jar, sparking an idea. “Why don’t you shower now, and I’ll make the second batch?”
She rears back, eyes widening. “Oh no, I couldn’t ask you to do that.”
“It’s no problem,” I say, waving her off. “You made me breakfast. Flipping a few pancakes is the least I can do.”
I’d rather tell her it’s nonnegotiable, but I doubt she’d respond well to that approach. She already thinks I’m a jerk, so I’ll have to find a more subtle approach if I want my way.
Noelle glances back at me as she moves dirty dishes from the counter to the sink. “Are you sure?”
“I am.”
She nods slowly, still hesitant, but doesn’t argue. “Okay, but I’ll clean this mess when I’m finished,” she states.
“Sounds good.”
I only say it to placate her. I have every intention of handling the cleanup, but there’s no point in arguing.
After I finish my hockey puck pancakes andcrispybacon, I go to my room to grab Noelle another pair of sweats and a long-sleeved flannel.
I intercept her as she’s walking to the bathroom, toiletries in hand.
