“Fine,” I say, fighting a chuckle. “Pancakes, it is. But fair warning: I’m picky about syrup.”
Her mouth curves. “Yeah. You look like a syrup snob.”
“Syrup snob? Maybe I just have…standards,” I clarify, brows lifted.
Cami raises her water glass for a toast. “Cheers to midnight carbs and fragile breakfast standards!”
I chuckle, and when our glasses clink, her eyes lift to mine, stormy-blue and just as magnetic as they were two nights ago. I really should look away from the woman whose natural beauty has wrecked my ability to think straight.
Freckles sprinkled across her nose.
The subtle curve to her lips.
That cool confidence in how she holds herself.
But I’m unable to look away.
Sucker.
Vera returns, notepad and pen in hand, prying my attention from Cami. “What can I getcha?” Her wry grin suggests she already knows we’ll say pancakes.
“Stack of buttermilk, side of bacon, and scrambled eggs.” You’d think Cami had just won the damn lottery with how her whole face lights up as she orders. “Oh, coffee, too, please. Cream and sugar.”
Vera nods, scribbling. “Got it. You?” She turns to me.
“Same,” I reply, flipping my menu shut. “Coffee. Black, please.”
“Oooh, can I have a little powdered sugar on my pancakes?” Cami asks.
With another quick nod, Vera tears a slip from her notepad, then disappears toward another table, her shoes lightly squeaking against the polished floor.
Cami wraps her hands around her water glass, then glances across the table. “By the way…thanks. For tonight.”
I lift a brow. “For what exactly?”
“For going into a stranger’s attic. For staying calm. For not acting like it was some massive inconvenience. You didn’t have to do any of that.”
I shrug. “Barely anything.”
“To me, it was.”
She holds my gaze a second longer, and I shift back and reach for my water, not sure what to do with how her words settle.
“And, of course—pancakes.”
“Pancakes?” I smirk. “That’s what’s truly earned your gratitude, isn’t it?”
She grins. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s nostalgia. Greasy diners. Sweet carbs. You don’t get this vibe in England.”
“So all it takes is syrup and carbs to win you over?”
“Maybe,” she says, twirling her hair. “England’s got crumpets and tea, but pancakes feel different here. Like home.”
I take a sip of water, still watching her. “So…England?”
“Oxford, technically. Graduated high school at sixteen,” she adds casually as if anyone can accomplish that. “Started college at New York University, then transferred over. Been there the last six years. Finished my undergrad in Economics and International Business, stayed on for a Master’s in Applied Economics and Strategy…” Hand resting on her cheek, she sighs. “And somewhere along the way, I picked up a PhD. Still not sure how that happened.”
Before I can respond, Vera reappears at our table, setting down two steaming mugs, black for me, cream and sugar already set beside Cami’s.
