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17
LENORE
Dear sweet baby Jesus. I’d be a happy woman if I woke up to this every morning. I thought the view from behind was good, but the stark whiteness of the towel against his tanned skin just adds that little extra something. I’m captivated by the play of muscles in his chest as he raises the mug, my mug, and how his throat works as he takes a swallow of coffee.
Norman knocks me from my trance with a swat to the knee and a pointed yowl aimed at his food bowl.
“Matt’ll help you,” I tell him, ungracefully fleeing the room and running up the stairs. Thankfully I don’t face plant. With a slam, I lock myself in the bathroom and lean against the door. I feel like a high schooler with her first crush. There’s no denying it now; I have a crush on Matt. I’ve probably always had a crush on Matt, which is why Annie and Al got so many ideas when we had dinner together Wednesday night. The way they watched us proves they suspected something was happening even before Matt and I did.
I think Matt feels the same. He said as much last night, and certain things have made me think so, but then again, I’m not used to courteous, genuinely nice men. There’s something in the way he watches me that makes me feel like he’s holding a part of himself back. He told me before he doesn’t do serious relationships, so maybe he’s just as unsure as I am.
Last night he seemed sure he wanted to ask me out sometime. I understand the complications that can arise between an employee and a boss but something deep in my gut tells me I can trust Matt. That he’s a genuinely good man who works with a single-minded focus to achieve his goals and support his mom.
I pull off my clothes, but as I near the shower, I can smell Matt's natural aroma mixing with the bathroom's regular scents. When I stuck my head in earlier, I was lured by the familiar scent and told myself I wouldn’t look, but I couldn’t help it. Now I’ll never be able to take another shower again without picturing him in the stall.
I wash and climb out. The fluffy bathroom rug squishes under my feet as I dash to the closet and pull out a towel. I quickly grab a change of clothes from my room and hustle back to the bathroom. There’s no door to the bedroom area, and I’m obviously shyer than Matt when it comes to showing off a lot of skin.
While brushing my hair and putting makeup on, I hear a ding from the microwave. Curious, I gather my courage and go downstairs.
“Just switched the clothes over.” Matt’s still sporting the towel, standing in the middle of the kitchen holding two bigger coffee mugs.
“Hope you don’t mind. I made us some microwave pancakes for breakfast.” He raises the gigantic mugs in the air, smiling.
“You can make pancakes in coffee mugs?” I edge closer and resist the urge to touch his skin. When I woke up this morning holding his hand, my brain registered the strength in those hands and all the callouses built up from hard work.
“Super easy. Don’t even need eggs. Plus, there aren’t as many dishes to clean up afterward.”
“Smells good.”
Instead of taking the chance of running my fingers across his skin, I pull out one of the bar stools from the counter and slide onto it. I opted for capris and a fancier T-shirt today since it’s supposed to be warmer. I feel weird working in an auto shop and wearing business clothes.
Matt slides a mug and spoon over to me.
“You added chocolate chips,” I say with pleasure.
“Couldn’t help myself. Chocolate chips are one of my weaknesses.”
The nefarious part of my brain stores that information away for later use. “I thought that was just a kid thing?”
For once, I sound like a well-adjusted human being who can tease and flirt with a guy without losing her marbles or blurting out all her problems like I’ve been doing with Matt since we met.
“Kid at heart, I guess. Syrup?”
I nod, and he slides the bottle to me after drizzling some on his. I notice he’s also brought out the last of the fruit from dinner, so there’s something healthy to balance the meal.
“So, this is kind of a personal question, but how old are you?”
He looks younger, more my age, but he’s more mature than most people I talk to, so it’s hard to tell.
“Thirty-five. My birthday was in June. How come?”
“Just curious.” I try to act casual, but he watches me in a way that makes me feel like he’s studying everything about me.
“How old are you?” He scoops a bite of pancake from the mug.
“About to turn twenty-four. My birthday’s in September.”
“What day?”
