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I could listen to her talk about this for days.
I’m barely even processing the words. Just listening to the soothing pride in her voice turning every syllable into silk and watching the absorbed expression on her face.
Not to mention the way she bites her lip so gently as she focuses on pouring steaming hot water into the press’ carafe, carefully streaming it down the sides till it forms a small puddle in the bottom.
I’m honestly confused. Guess it must show on my face, because she glances at me sidelong with a smile.
“You have to preheat the glass evenly for the best result,” she says, setting the kettle back down on the stove.
“Ah. Preheat. Got it.”
She turns the kettle off before stealing a measuring cup from my pantry, then shakes out some of those grounds. The movement releases another burst of delicious scent that makes my stomach rumble like it’s caught a whiff of hazelnut-caramel pastries.
Yeah, my gut’s as subtle as a grizzly bear waking up from hibernation.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
Felicity stifles a giggle behind her hand, then glances at me, clearing her throat.
“I guess I made it smell pretty good in here,” she says. “Or you’re just starving. I did interrupt breakfast.”
“We hadn’t started in yet. I just need to let everything cook for a few more minutes.” I move next to her, turning the burners back on the stove and putting the oven back on. The biscuits might be a little thick from turning off before they finished cooking, but we’ll survive.
It’s pretty comfortable for the next few minutes.
Felicity and I work side by side in extremely close quarters while I make sure the eggs are good and cheesy, the bacon crisp, the hash browns rich and buttery.
She puts grounds in the press and fills it up, releasing so much of that heavenly scent it’s nearly dizzying, only to stir and then do—something—that releases a rushing cloud of aromatic steam that flushes up like some kind of magic trick.
“That was so cool!” Eli gasps, and I jump. He’d been so quiet, watching us so intently, that I’d half forgotten he was there. He grins. “I gotta tell Mr. Leo about that. Zach says he hates making coffee over a campfire. It’s always gritty.” He stops, giving me a look that’s almost too cunning for a twelve-year-old. “I mean. I gotta tell him—if you give me permission to go camping.”
“I told you I haven’t made up my mind yet.” And I won’t, not till I get a chance to feel out the areas around town better and figure out just how safe they are. I point my spatula at him. “I’ll talk to Leo when we drop you off today.”
The impending pout immediately turns into a hopeful smile. “I still get to go hiking?”
“You still get to go hiking. After breakfast and a shower.” I toss my head toward the hall. “Food’s almost ready. Go clean up.”
I barely get the last word out before Eli’s off the stool, tablet abandoned as he zips toward the bathroom.
Oof. I miss having that kind of boyish energy.
Once he’s gone, though, I glance at Felicity and offer her a smile as I pull down a second coffee cup to add to the first I’d already put out. Then I start portioning up the food onto three plates.
I always make a little too much in case Eli needs a snack later, so I’ve got plenty for a guest. Felicity pours that amazing-smelling coffee and pulls over the tall sugar canister on the counter.
“I already know you take yours with a half-pound of sugar and a dash of heavy cream,” she teases. “In the fridge?”
“An entire carton of it. How do you take yours?”
“A half-gallon of heavy cream and a dash of sugar.” She laughs. “I’m your opposite.”
In how many ways? I wonder, when I know I should not be thinking about this woman in those frigging terms.
I shouldn’t be wanting to know her better.
I have a kid to think about.
Can’t just go throwing strange women around in my life like it’s no big deal.
That’s more of a Holt Silverton move—or it was before he met Libby and traded in his skirt-chasing days for a ranch and a wife and a whole mess of ghost town renovations.
It’s never been my game, but now that I’m Eli’s only source of stability, I’ve really got to think about my choices. I can’t go falling head over heels at first sniff just because she makes bomb-ass coffee and looks bomb-ass gorgeous doing it.
I clear my throat and load up my arms, something I got pretty good at back when I got put on galley duty in boot camp. It’s second nature slinging the plates out on the breakfast bar in a neat row.
“So,” I ask, while she sprinkles one of the cups with sugar and pours enough to choke a horse in the other, “this just a social visit? Or is there something I can help you with?” I frown. “Did the mugs cost more than you thought? I told you, I can pay more if you need me to.”
