Page 48 of Where I Should’ve Been

“Fuck me,” I mutter and run my free hand through my hair. “That’s worse than Hot Farmer Tad.”

Breezy laughs.

“And to answer your question, I only cook in my underwear when I’ve got company to impress.” I flip the bacon and wince a little when the grease pops onto my bare stomach. “By the way, welcome to late-night breakfast at Casa de Studly Sheepman. There are no Michelin stars, but I’ve got maple syrup and orange juice in the fridge,” I add with a wink. “It’s vintage, last Tuesday.”

She laughs again, and God, I’d put the sizzling bacon straight on my chest to hear that sound again.

I pour batter into the pan, focusing on keeping it round, though my eyes keep flicking back to her. Because fuck, Breezy is beautiful. Sleek black hair falling loose, bare thighs peeking out from under my flannel, and toes curling against the counter like she’s been here a hundred times. Like she belongs here.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” she asks with a cute grin kissing her lips. “I’ve never really painted you as a cooking kind of a guy.”

“Are you questioning my pancake skills?”

“Judging by the state of your stove…” Her gaze drops pointedly to the grease splatters. “I think it’s a fair question.”

I waggle the spatula. “Careful, woman. You mock the chef, you don’t get pancakes.”

“Oh no,” she says and dramatically moves her hand to her chest. “How will I survive without your slightly burned delicacies?”

“Breezy, baby, I’m a pro at pancakes. Trust the process.” I flip the pancake. Of course, it arcs too high, lands half off the pan, and Breezy covers her mouth to stifle a giggle.

“Pro status, huh?”

“I’m just getting warmed up.” I grin, toss the pancake in the trash, and pour another onto the skillet.

She watches me, smile softening, and after a beat, she says quietly, “I like this.”

“Like what?” I glance at her over my shoulder. “Burned pancakes?”

Her eyes flick to mine. “No. This.” She gestures at me, the stove, the ridiculous scene. “You making me food in your boxers at two in the morning.”

Something sharp pulls in my chest, but I play it off by shaking my ass at her. “Careful, Breeze. If you keep complimenting my ass, it might start sounding like you want to keep me and my sexy boxer briefs around for more than breakfast.”

And I punctuate that statement by slapping the spatula on my own ass.

Her laugh is quick and deflecting. “Don’t push it, Farm Daddy.”

“Farm Daddy?” I question through a groan. “If you tell me Eileen has been calling me that in the fucking newspaper, I swear I’ll croak right here.”

“Nah.” She grins mischievously. “That’s a Breezy trademark. I use it in my secret diary.” Her smile is equal parts teasing and sarcastic. “And of course, when I doodle Mrs. Farm Daddy all over my notebooks in study hall.”

“You’re such a smartass,” I tell her, and she just keeps on smiling.

“I might be a smartass, but I’m a very lovable smartass, you know?” she retorts with a wink. “Pretty sure that’s why you’re currently twerking and cooking for me in your boxers.”

“I did not twerk.”

“Whatever you say, Farm Daddy.”

She’s still smiling, but her eyes flicker with something she’s not saying. A thought neither of us wants to name.

Suddenly, my heart starts pounding so hard it’s like it wants to dive-bomb straight out of my chest. It’s a strange feeling. A confusing fucking feeling. It’s the kind of feeling that digs under your ribs and threatens to mean something.

I immediately shove it down.

And I slide a few pancakes and bacon onto a plate and walk over to the kitchen island to hand it to her. But before I can stop myself, the question just slides off my fucking tongue. “You made any decisions about Red Bridge?”

She tilts her head to the side. “Decisions?”