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Sawyer
After Sydney ditched us from the breakfast she planned, I looked to Grace. When Sydney was herding her children out the door, I moved next to Grace as I issued my goodbyes. Grace was still next to me, her hands worrying in front of her as her eyes were fixed on the door my sister and her kids just went through.
Grace and I had been getting somewhere yesterday and now we were back to square one. Hell, we were back to square negative twenty-five. Sydney’s disappearing act today certainly wasn’t helping matters.
“You still up for breakfast?” I asked her, hoping she would relax, even just a fraction.
When she had walked into the house earlier, I had to fight for indifference, keeping my head down and allowing Brody to climb all over me.
Side note? It was like a massage. The kid could crawl all over me any day he wanted.
But I had to force myself not to look up at her.
She’d been on my mind all morning. Hell, she’d been on my mind all night, prior to thinking about her after the bodily fluids fiasco at three. But she absolutely consumed my thoughts after that point.
Her smile, her laugh. Her body. She and I together, back then.
The two of us as friends.
The stilted moments I’d do anything to do over or even simply erase.
The months of no contact that I wish I could have just sent a quick joke, a freaking meme that made me think of her—because God knew I thought about her often—anything to keep that wall from going up.
And the fact she’d had a panic attack bad enough for her to take a major step back from one of the biggest accomplishments she had taken in her effort to beat her demons. That one took up a lot of residence in my head in the early hours of the morning.
Now I watched as her body relaxed a little more and she looked to me. She still grasped her hands together in front of the oversized sweatshirt she wore, but she didn’t look as tense as she had a few moments ago. “Ok. There’s this really fun brunch spot with a live DJ and a Bloody Mary bar.”
While that sounded pretty fun, “I’ll cook.”
Her hands dropped to her sides and her eyes widened a fraction. “You’ll cook?”
I shrugged. She made it sound like guys couldn’t cook. “Well yeah. What’s your favorite?” I turned away from her and moved through the room, dodging cars and monster trucks, and toward the kitchen island. “French toast? Pancakes? Waffles?” I started opening up doors, trying to find frying pans. “Omelet?”
Bingo. Skillet.
I grabbed it, realizing it was probably the largest skillet in the history of skillets, and brought it down to the counter. Grace had moved toward me and was now sitting at one of the three bar stools on the opposite side of the island.
“What do you want?” I asked her again, plugging the device in. I went through the upper cupboards now, finding an olive oil spray to use.
“I’m still getting over the fact that you want to cook for me.” I glanced up at her from spraying the black surface and watched as a blush rose on her cheeks. She didn’t mean to add that ‘for me’ but it was true.
I wanted to cook for her.
Even if it was just breakfast.
“Grace.” I found a spatula and pointed it in her direction. “What do you want?”
With a small smile on her face, she finally answered. “French toast, please.”
“Gotcha. One order of French toast, coming right up.” Finding everything I needed, I brought all my supplies back to the counter.
“Can I help?” Grace asked from her seat on the other side.
“Want to crack eggs?”
“Let me guess. You can cook but you always manage to get a shell in there?” she teased and I found myself fully relaxing. If she was joking again, maybe this morning’s step back wasn’t as bad as I thought.
“I said no such thing,” I answered instead, pushing a bowl and the carton of eggs over toward her. “Crack six.”
