He frowns, which, hello, that’s rude because this breakfast smells amazing. His eyes drift across the two plates sitting on the counter, already loaded with food. “You didn’t have to cook for me.”
“You’re right. I didn’t. But I did have to cook for me, and since you already retrieved my car from the side of the mountain, I thought breakfast might be a reasonable way to say thank you.” When he doesn’t respond, I push my hands into the back pockets of my jeans. “We don’t have to eat it together,” I add. “It’s just food. Eat it wherever you want.” I walk back to the toaster and lower in the two slices of homemade bread, then unwrap the butter I left out on the counter to soften, trying my best to seem completely unbothered by the man lurking at the edge of the kitchen.
I should be dismissive. Content to ignore him like he asked me to. But I’ve never been able to leave riddles alone, and Noah Hawthorne is definitely a riddle.
Why isn’t he in Italy with the rest of his family?
Why doesn’t he care about being alone at Christmas?
Why is his family so worried about him that they would literallybuyhim company? If that’s actually what they did. If it isn’t, why doeshethink they’re worried about him enough to do it?
“I could eat,” Noah finally says, and I glance over my shoulder to see him shrugging out of his coat. Underneath,he’s wearing a dark brown henley on top of a white thermal undershirt. He rolls the sleeves up, a white cuff at the edge of the brown, and I catch a glimpse of a tattoo on the inside of his forearm. It’s hard not to stare as he moves to the barstool on the opposite side of the enormous island and sits down. He’s just so…present.Or maybe it’s just that I’m soawareof his presence. Like my body is tuned to one specific frequency, and he’s the only thing I’m picking up.
Noah lifts his gaze to meet mine, and it catches and holds, making my heart climb into my throat.
After less than twenty-four hours and an admittedly less-than-friendly welcome, I can name exactly zero reasons I should be romanticizing this man. Excepting his looks, which are notably extraordinary. But I’m not shallow enough to hang my hopes on a guy just for his looks.
So why can’t I look away?
And why do I feel like he doesn’t really want me to?
I don’t know how long we stare at each other, but something in his blue eyes shifts, then softens.
The toast pops and I startle, one hand flying to my chest as whatever was happening between Noah and me fizzles and dissipates into the air.
Noah clears his throat and I pull out the toast, buttering them one by one before adding them to our plates, then sliding his across the counter.
I don’t look up, but I can feel Noah watching me. I wonder if he can sense my nerves, if he’s noticing the way my hands are trembling.
Which,whyare they trembling in the first place? What is even happening to me?
“Thank you,” Noah says as he takes the plate. He keeps focused just over my shoulder, like he’s intentionally avoiding eye contact. “It looks good.”
“Breakfast is easy,” I say. “I got good at it during my last rotation of clinicals.”
“Yeah? Why is that?” Noah pulls a couple of forks from a drawer at the end of the bar. He motions toward the barstool beside him with a tilt of his head, and I carry my plate around the island so I can sit beside him.
“I worked nights,” I say. “Or, I guessworkedis a relative term since I wasn’t getting paid. Either way, my roommates were both nursing majors as well, same year as me, but they were on day shift. We were never home at the same time, so we started planning meals, intentional times for us to be together since our schedules were opposite. Whenever it was my turn to cook, I’d usually been sleeping all day, and I always wanted breakfast food. So that’s what I’d make everyone. Eggs, bacon, waffles. I made these killer crepes once. Breakfast always felt easiest.”
Noah waits until my fork is in my hand before he takes his first bite. It’s a small thing, but I’m pretty sure he was waiting for me. My mother would be impressed by his manners.
Thinking of Mom makes my heart squeeze. This is the first time in a long time I won’t be with my parents for Christmas.
Noah takes a bite of toast while I dig into my eggs, but I keep watch out of the corner of my eye, waiting for his reaction.
His eyes widen as he chews. “Where did this come from?” he says through a mouthful of bread.
I can’t keep myself from grinning. It’s exactly the reaction I expected. “I made that too.”
He looks around the kitchen. “This morning?”
“No, I brought it with me. That’s actually why I left late yesterday. I was at my brother and sister-in-law’s house in Harvest Hollow, and we started baking. I didn’t want to leave until everything was finished.”
“Suddenly I don’t regret having to rescue you quite as much,” he says before taking another bite. “It’s really good.”
I don’t know why his praise warms me so much. I’ve been making bread with my mom for years—she always taught me it was the best kind of therapy—and I’m well aware of how good it is. Noah thinking so shouldn’t matter. But a little bit of the tension that’s been gripping my chest since I got here yesterday loosens the slightest bit. Mom always says good food can turn strangers into friends. Maybe it’ll work for Noah and me.
“Thanks. It’s my mom’s recipe.”
