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I rip my attention away from his body and focus on his face, cheeks heating as I see his smirk. “What?”

“I said your hair looks different.”

My hand goes automatically to the chaotic bun on the top of my head. “Oh. Yeah, I guess. I usually wear it down.”

“No, I mean—” He gestures at my hair, his voice softening for some reason. “Your bangs are gone.”

I duck my head, suddenly embarrassed. I started getting bangs as a teen to hide my face, but sometimes in the morning they’re overstimulating and I tuck them back.

“I like it,” comes Lucas’s voice again. When I glance up at him, that softness is in his gaze, too. “I can see your eyes better.”

But I’m not ready to accept anything that resembles a compliment, so I gesture awkwardly toward the skillet instead.

“What are you making?” I frown as something occurs to me. “Wait, did you just wake up?”

Lucas goes back to bustling around the kitchen, but not before sending me a raised eyebrow. “Let’s not sound too judgy. You also just woke up.”

“Yeah, but this is normal for me,” I defend. “Why do you think I come into the office after lunch? Late nights equal late mornings.” I take a seat on one of the barstools. “You, on the other hand, don’t strike me as a late riser.”

“And what exactly do I strike you as?”

“I don’t know. Someone who never sleeps? Someone who works around the clock and sleeps a grand total of four hours every night and then once every six months crashes from extreme fatigue?”

Lucas’s movements stop. “How did you manage to call me a hard worker while also making it sound like an insult?”

I grin. “It’s a talent.”

He goes back to crisping his bacon on the stove. “Well, for your information, I am a hard worker, but I also like to sleep.” A hiccup in his movements. “Sometimes.”

I shake my head with a smile. He’s too easy to read.

“Anyway, I thought I’d make us some breakfast. Do you like eggs? I have a quiche I like to make that I can customize if you have ingredient requests.”

I peek around him to try to see what he has set up on the counter. “You’re, like, cooking cooking. Is that homemade pie crust?”

Lucas turns around with a proud grin. “Of course. Is there any other kind?”

Okay, maybe he’s not that easy to read.

And then I realize the oven light is on. I’m too curious to fight the urge to open the door and see what else he’s making on a Saturday morning.

“You made homemade cinnamon rolls?”

“Yes, ma’am. Personally, I think they’re the best I’ve ever tried, but my brothers like to remind me I have an ego sometimes.”

Based on the heavenly smell wafting out of the oven, I don’t think this is going to be a question of ego.

“Any other shocking skills I should know about?” I ask as I close the oven door. “Am I going to find an art room down the hall with stunning watercolor paintings hanging on the walls?”

“If anything, I’d probably pick charcoal sketches.”

When I gape at him, he grins.

“Kidding. No, I don’t have any other shocking skills. Just cooking.”

I lean my hip against the counter to study him for a moment. “Why cooking?”

He shrugs, growing more serious. “It’s relaxing. My job is…stressful, so it’s nice to have something like cooking as a hobby.” But even as he says it, I can tell there’s something else that he’s not adding.