She wrapped her arms around my neck. “I like this version of you.”
“This is just the beginning, Bee.”
Her smile fades into something softer. “You mean that?”
“I meant it the first time I kissed you. And the second. And last night.” She cups my cheek and says, “Then I guess I’ll stay for breakfast.”
“And lunch,” I add. “Greedy,” she says and smirks. “Only when it comes to you,” I say with a smile. She slowly closes her eyes again, and I enjoy her presence for a moment longer before I sneak out of bed.
Chapter 30
Blair
The scent of something buttery and slightly sweet pulled me from my deepest sleep in years.
For a moment, I forgot where I was. The blankets smelled like him: woodsmoke, whiskey and clean cotton. Sunlight poured across the bed in lazy streaks of gold. My legs were tangled in sheets, my hair a mess across the pillow, and my body hummed with a contentment I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Then I remembered the night before. The orchard. The way his hands had memorized me like I was a story he already knew by heart.
And now pancakes?
I pulled on the oversized flannel shirt he’d left slung across the foot of the bed and padded barefoot into the kitchen, still buttoning up the shirt. The kitchen was warm with maple, cinnamon, and something citrusy that made my stomach flutter with anticipation, not just for the food.
Greyson stood at the stove, barefoot, shirtless, and completely unaware he was starring in my new favorite fantasy. Pajama pants slung low on his hips, spatula in hand, a smear of batter across one forearm, and a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he hummed along to an old Johnny Cash track.
I leaned in the doorway and crossed my arms. “Do youalwayslook this good when you cook?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Only when there’s someone worth impressing.”
“Mission accomplished.”
He flipped a pancake effortlessly. “You’re up early.”
“You made pancakes. I’d rise from the grave for pancakes.”
“Duly noted.”
I walked over, slipping my arms around his middle and pressing my cheek to his back. His skin was warm, silky. Familiar already.
He covered my hands with his own and squeezed. “Morning, honey bee.”
“Still calling me that, huh?”
“Forever,” he said simply.
Ten minutes later, we sat across from each other at his small kitchen table, sharing syrup, laughing over shared bites of blueberry pancakes, and sipping coffee from mismatched mugs. Outside, the leaves rustled in the cool breeze, painting shifting shadows across the tile.
He ate like a man who appreciated food, which made me love him even more.
“So,” I said around a forkful of perfectly fluffy pancakes, “You just…dothis? Cook a full-on weekend breakfast for the women you sleep with?”
He raised a brow. “Women?”
“Fine. Singular.”
He leaned forward on his elbows. “I’ve never done this.”
“What, made pancakes?”
