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After I shove the phone into my pocket, I close the door behind me and then head downstairs. No one is awake at this hour. The house is unusually quiet, still a disheveled mess from last night. I would lose my mind if I lived here. The couch cushions are all over the floor in the living room. A pile of unopened mail is spread across the dining room table. Dishes are stacked in the sink and overflowing onto the kitchen counter. I was going to surprise Jamie and make breakfast for him. Maybe I should rethink the idea.
Unable to work with the mess, I start loading plates and cups into the dishwasher. I let out a sigh of relief as the pile slowly disappears making more room for me to cook. After the kitchen is clean enough, I make a pot of coffee, fill a carafe I doubt they have ever used with orange juice, and begin frying two packages of bacon.
I hum Mr. Rizzo’s favorite song as I flip pieces of bacon in the frying pan. There’s something about singing and cooking that calms my nerves. As a child, I loved helping my mom on Sunday mornings. My love of food and cooking began years ago. And once I started working at the bakery in high school, I completely fell in love with baking cupcakes and pastries.
A rustle upstairs, followed by the sound of glass breaking, interrupts my humming. Jamie had mentioned having the day off from practice and that his teammates had planned to sleep in. Two loud voices boom above me. Then, I hear their feet bang against the floor. From the sounds of it, two people are fighting.
With how loud they are it won’t be long before everyone in the house is awake. Keeping that in mind, I finish up with the bacon leaving it on a plate with paper towels to soak up the grease.
“Is that bacon I smell?” a deep voice asks from behind me. I turn around to see Drake Donovan approaching me. He peeks over my shoulder at the stove and smiles. “Sweet. I’m starving.”
“You’re always hungry,” someone says from behind him.
He’s the starting goaltender for the Strickland Senators, a giant who towers over me. Drake is close to seven feet tall. His large frame blocks the entrance to the kitchen, so I don’t see Tucker at first. Accompanied by his twin, Tucker pulls out a chair at the island.
Tucker tips his nose in the air and takes a big whiff. “You making eggs?” he asks me.
“I can… if that’s what you want.”
“Yeah,” Tucker says. “I like mine scrambled.”
“Me, too,” says Trent.
“Don’t make them shit,” another deep voice says. Killian Kade enters the kitchen, shoving a hand through his black hair pushing it off his forehead. “But I’ll take mine over easy.” He winks at me as he takes a seat next to Drake at the island at the center of the room.
Glancing at the egg mixture on the counter next to me, I chuckle. “I was going to make French toast.”
“Nice, I’ll have that, too,” Tucker says, and I want to smack him across his adorable face. “Put extra cinnamon on mine.”
All of these guys are so damn spoiled. They must be used to having someone wait on them hand and foot. Money buys a lot of comforts. Either their moms or their maids must serve them. Judging by the condition of this house, they expect someone to clean up after them. And now cook for them. One dinner was enough, and here I am acting like I’m the help.
Ignoring all of them, I turn around to face the stove, dipping bread into the mixture to add to the hot griddle. Midway through the first batch, I feel hands on my waist. I’m about to smack them away when I hear Jamie’s voice rumble in my ear. His breath on my earlobe causes me to freeze, chills shooting down my arms.
“Morning,” he whispers. “I rolled over hoping to go another round before class, and your side of the mattress was cold.”
My side of the mattress? I try to push down my excitement and fail miserably. The broad grin turning up the corners of my mouth is so wide my cheeks hurt.
“I thought I would surprise you and bring you breakfast in bed. But your friends came down and ruined it.”
“Let me guess,” he says. “Drake was down here first.”
“Yeah, how did you know?”
He nods at the plate of crispy bacon. “Because that’s how his mom used to wake him up for school.”
I chuckle. “With bacon?”
Jamie smirks. “Uh-huh. He wouldn’t get out of bed in middle school unless he could smell bacon cooking.”
We both laugh.
“That’s hilarious.”
“You think that’s bad?” Jamie checks over his shoulder to see if his friends are behind him before he continues, “Tucker’s mom had to iron all of his shirts for prep school that morning. He’d throw a fit and refuse to go to school if she didn’t.”
