Waving my phone at him, I leash Gordie up and take him for a nice long stroll. The dog sniffs trees and waters a sign post, but otherwise he's content to walk at my pace and smell the wildflowers that have sprouted up here and there. He never barks or growls. "You're the best dog I've ever met. How'd Thorne end up so lucky?"
He barks once in response. Smart dog.
When I get in the door from walking Gordie, I'm immediately confronted by a fragrant scent and the sound of something frying.
Letting Gordie off his leash, I follow the dog into the kitchen, where his owner is standing in front of the stove. He's changed into a tight black T-shirt and jeans, though he's barefoot. As I let my gaze roam over him, taking in every tattooed, muscular inch, he notices me.
"I hope you like eggs and bacon. It’s basically the only meal I make for myself, no matter the time of day."
I nod, dropping into a seat at the counter. "Who doesn't? I could eat breakfast for every meal."
"I could too. The only thing I cook that's off my meal plan is eggs. Do you want a scramble with some veggies?"
"Please." I hop up, wandering to the coffee maker. "Can I make another pot? You know, since we're having breakfast at lunchtime?"
"It's your body. Can you drink caffeine now without staying up all night?" Thorne's lips twitch.
"God, what am I, a thousand years old?"
He shakes his head and fishes the bacon out of the frying pan with tongs. "You're a very young twenty-four."
"And you are the oldest 32-year-old I've ever met. Ancient."
He smirks and pours eggs into the same pan. "Just wait."
"Here's a fun fact. However old I get, you'll always be older."
"Rub it in, why don't you?"
I hit the button on the coffee pot and it starts to percolate. It only takes a few minutes for both the coffee and the eggs to be done. I resign myself to another dose of almond milk, but when I open the fridge to retrieve it, I go still.
Inside I find, not one, but four different kinds of oat-milk creamer, some flavored, some not. "You got me oat milk?"
Thorne rolls his eyes. "Yes, Mollie. To avoid you stomping around the kitchen, bitching about only having almond milk, I ordered a whole selection of oat milk creamers. I hope it satisfies you, your majesty."
It's thoughtful. It makes it a little hard to play this snarkfest that Thorne and I are always engaged in. I take a deep breath.
"Well, thanks."
"It's just oat milk." Thorne shoves a plate full of bacon and eggs into my free hand. "Here. Eat your eggs and stop making things weird."
I sit at the kitchen island with Thorne, eating the eggs he made for me and turning the oat milk over again in my mind. I thought that I knew him pretty well, but before I moved in, I never pictured Thorne in the kitchen, cooking for someone. Maybe he has a few good qualities, buried under all the smirks and fuckboy energy.
Thorne wolfs his food down, puts his plate in the sink, and disappears. When he comes back downstairs, I'm putting both of our plates in the dishwasher. His shoes are on, and he shoves his phone in his pocket.
"I won't be back for dinner. Don't wait up." Sliding me one more smug grin, he's out the door, off to parts unknown.
God. What if he's on a date? Worse, what if he brings her back here?
I open my texts to Indie.
me
update on the housing situation
currently residing in the floating home of my mortal enemy
I hate it here
