Page 56 of Tennessee Trouble

“What are you doing?”

He continues, drilling a hole in the center of his stack, before taking a hunk of butter and depositing it in the middle. I’m gobsmacked, unable to fully wrap my head around the atrocity that I’m witnessing.

“This always happens…” he mutters, taking the syrup from me.

I continue to watch, unable to look away, like a rubbernecker on the highway after a major crash. Pouring the syrup on top of the butter, into the pancake volcano, Brandt sighs.

“This always happens?” I repeat. “So all the girls you sleep with think you’re a weirdo when they see this?”

I raise a brow, not quite sure I want an answer.

“You’re the first girl I’ve cooked pancakes for in…well, ever. I think. Unless my sisters count.”

Ever? He’s never cooked another girl breakfast? Wow…

“You’ve never made breakfast for any of your…ummmmm…girlfriends?”

Brandt shrugs. “I usually stick with scrambled eggs; it’s easier. Less mess, and it’s faster. And something everyone will eat. Other than the one gal who was a vegan. But now that I think about it, I don’t think she made it to breakfast.”

I nod along, pretending that it doesn’t sting hearing him talk about other women. I have no claim on him, and frankly, we’ve known each other for less than a week, so really, I shouldn’t be upset that there have been women before me. There have been men before him. Still, there’s twinge of something inside me knowing that I’m not the only one out there who knows what his arms feel like when he holds them.

“My dad eats his pancakes this way,” Brandt continues, passing me back the syrup. “Why, I have no idea. But he does. So when I was little, I did what he did and didn’t realize it was weird until Milo’s mom made us pancakes after a sleepover in the sixth grade. By that point, it was a habit.”

I nod, soaking in this new knowledge about him. The fun fact that feels like I’m being let in on a secret.

“What else don’t I know about you?”

“Ummmmm…I dunno. Lots? Nothing?” He laughs, taking a big bite of his pancakes. “Whatcha wanna know?”

Good question.

I pull my phone out of my pocket, balancing my plate on my knees, searching for a list of questions. Pinterest to the rescue!

“Favorite swear word?”

“Fuck.” He winks, making me blush again. “You?”

“Shit. Because I can drag it out to a lot of syllables when I want to.”

“I can fuck like that too.”

I swat at him playfully. I know exactly how he fucks. Damn well.

“What’s your most expensive piece of clothing?”

Brandt sits back, pursing his lips side to side as he thinks. “That’s tough. I brew beer, so I don’t really own anything super pricey. Either I have no occasion for it or it’s just going to end up messy from the brewhouse. But I do own a suit, and that thing wasn’t cheap. So I guess that. You own anything over-the-top expensive?”

“I own a Stell McGrath.”

“What’s that?”

“A very expensive cocktail dress. Stell McGrath is a high-end brand, right up there with like Gucci and Prada and all them. It’s what I wear every year to the Tinsel Tangle, the holiday party put on by the Ol’ Troublemakers.”

“Never heard of Stell McGrath. Then again, can’t say I’m really up on women’s fashion. Or fashion in general.”

“Fair.”

I scan the list again, trying to find a good one.