Page 145 of Suite 7

Her grin widens.

Later that morning, she perches on the counter while I make coffee. Precise movements. Measuring grounds. Pouring water.

I catch her staring. “What?”

“Nothing. Just watching you.”

“And?”

“I like watching you. The way you do things. Carefully.”

I move between her legs. Hands on her hips. “Most people find it annoying.”

“Most people are wrong.”

I kiss her softly. “Stay there. I’ll make breakfast.”

“You’re going to cook for me?”

“Don’t sound so shocked.”

“Can you though?”

I swat her thigh playfully. “Brat.”

She laughs. The sound fills my kitchen.

I pull out eggs, butter, and bread. Move through my space with familiar precision. Her eyes are on my hands.

I crack eggs one-handed.

“Show-off.”

“You like it.”

She grins. “Maybe.”

I whisk the eggs. Add cream. “How do you take them?”

“However you make them.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Surprise me.”

I pour them into the pan. “I’m going to mess them up and you’ll never let me live it down.”

“Probably. But I’ll still eat them.”

“Why?”

“Because you made them for me.”

I go still. Then continue cooking.

The eggs turn out perfect. Fluffy. Buttery. Exactly right.

We eat at my kitchen island. Knees touching. Comfortable silence.