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“Make you breakfast in bed. But I dropped the skillet on my toe and you’re here instead of in bed and”—she stops, blows out a long, exasperated breath—“it was a stupid idea.”
“No, it wasn’t. It’s—”
I’m a little wary as I step closer and take the offending frying pan out of her grip. Finding her in my kitchen, trying to make me breakfast was so far down the list of how I thought this morning would go that it wasn’t even on the list. And yet here she is, doing just that. And I don’t have a clue how I’m supposed to react—or how I should feel.
“—nice.” I finally settle on the most insipid word in my vocabulary. “Really nice.”
She snorts, rolls her eyes. “I’m not a child. You don’t need to placate me.”
“Believe me, I know you’re not a child.”
The words slip out before I can stop them. I start to kick myself, b
ut she giggles. Giggles. I didn’t even know that was possible—it’s definitely not a sound I can remember hearing from her anytime in the last decade.
“Are you hungry?” she asks, waggling the carton of eggs back and forth in front of me.
So hungry and for so many things I don’t even know where to start. But food seems as good a place as any, so I nod.
“Yeah, sure. What can I do to help?”
“Nothing. I’ve got it under control now. I promise not to drop the frying pan again—”
“Drop it a hundred times,” I tell her, even as I slip the pan out from between her fingers. “I don’t give a shit.” As long as she stays, she could bust up my whole place and I wouldn’t give a fuck.
I walk over to the stove, pop the pan on one of the burners. Then add a pat of butter from the stick she’d obviously taken out earlier. “What kind of eggs are we having?”
“Scrambled?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?” I ask with a smirk.
“Oh, shut up.”
She grabs a spatula, pretends to hit me with it.
“Now there’s the Cam I know and love.”
Shit. I freeze when the words register, wonder if it’s too late to staple my fucking mouth closed.
But Cam just laughs.
“Make the coffee and the toast,” she tells me, after grabbing a bowl to break the eggs into. “I’ll do the rest.”
I do as she says, keeping the conversation light as I start the coffee, slide bread into the toaster. I’m doing my best to keep my voice even, to keep things as chill between us as I possibly can. Already we’re way further ahead than the last time we slept together—not like that’s hard. Especially since she’s not crying or screaming at me. Now, if we can get through breakfast with her still talking to me, I’ll definitely call it a win…
Ten minutes later, we’re seated cross-legged on my couch—I have a dining table but I don’t think it’s been used more than twice since I moved in here—eating eggs and streaming one of the more recent episodes from The Walking Dead. Cam’s choice. Is it any wonder I’m crazy about the girl?
“I have a very important question to ask you,” Cam says during a lull in the action.
I glance over to where she’s slathering strawberry jam on a piece of toast. My stomach drops to my feet as I answer a very cautious “sure.”
She takes a bite of the toast, completely oblivious to my imminent freak-out and the fact that my heart might actually pound out of my chest before she’s done chewing. “So, realistically, how long do you really think you’d last in a zombie apocalypse?”
“That’s it?” I demand. “That’s your big question?”
She shrugs. “It’s an important question.”
“Is it? Is it really?”
