“Those jerks.”
Jude nodded. “Denver omelet okay? Ham, peppers, onions, cheese?”
“Better than okay,” I said. “As long as there’s no mushrooms.”
“I don’t even keep mushrooms in the house. A sign of solidarity against the evil fungi.”
I snorted a laugh at that.
So this was what it was like when you slept with someone who wasn’t a hookup on Spark. Easy banter. No weirdness. Not trying to flee at the first sign of conversation. He opened his arm for a sidehug, and shocker, I wanted to hug him instead of beating a path out the front door. I cuddled up to his side and squeezed.
“Why isn’t this awkward?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Do you want it to be awkward?” Jude flipped a perfect omelet in his elegant pan one-handed and then slid the beauty onto a white plate. “That’s for you.”
The omelet smelled delicious, but he looked good enough to eat himself, and something about the way his sweater hugged his shoulders made me want to rip it off him and trace the contour of his shoulder blades again.
“Yum—also, since when do you cook?”
“Since forever,” Jude said. “You should try some of my sourdough.” Just then a slice of sourdough popped up from the red vintage toaster on the counter. “It’s homemade.”
I couldn’t believe my eyes.
“Are you sure you’re not a serial killer? There has to be something wrong with you.”
“I drive like a grandma—you said it yourself. My fatal flaw.” Jude flashed me a smile.
I grabbed the slice of bread from the toaster and dropped it on my plate.
“Go on, sit and eat. Coffee is on the table.”
I groaned in appreciation as I saw my steaming mug.
“If I hadn’t already slept with you, I would for this,” I said.
“Nice to know you’re easily bribed.”
“I’m always easily bribed,” I said as I slid open a kitchen drawer, happy to find silverware and linen napkins. I grabbed the knife to slather butter on my toast. I took my plate and slid into one of the red wooden chairs at his dinette table and took a bite of the toast and then the omelet. I let out a moan of appreciation.
Jude laughed. “Like it?”
“Like is an understatement,” I mumbled, mouth full. I could get used to this level of spoiling. I let myself imagine, for just a second, weeks or months of mornings just like this one. Would that be so terrible?
Not as long as Oscar never found out.
Jude was already well on his way to making his own omelet, which he flipped in the pan. I dug into my food, with each bite more amazing than the last. I felt… surprisingly fine. Jude’s place… it felt… right. Comfortable.
“Why don’t I want to freak out?” I asked Jude, because Jude usually had all the answers.
“I don’t know. Do you always have morning freak-outs?”
“Only when I sleep with my brother’s best friend.”
“He has other best friends?” Jude sounded fake put out as he carried his omelet over to the breakfast table and slid in across from me.
“We seriously can’t tell Oscar about this,” I said. “I’m in enough trouble as it is.”
Jude shrugged. “He’ll be okay with it.”
