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“I’ll meet you at the table. Don’t come in here.”
He waited a few seconds, praying she’d listen to his request.
“Okay. Should I be worried?”
A low chuckle slipped out, low enough he knew she didn’t hear. If anyone should be worried, it was him. Not about this breakfast either, but her giving up on the fight for them.
Because, damn it, they were worth fighting for.
“Not for one second.”
It took another few minutes before everything was ready, settled on the two plates as if he had competed in a greatest bakers contest.
Inhaling deeply twice, he walked out of the kitchen toward the dining room where he found Mia waiting at the table as he’d requested. Oddly enough, she didn’t look too anxious. Thank God. The last thing he wanted was her to be nervous and worrying about them and how they’d never work out in the long run.
Because he had sensed in the bedroom that’s where she had wanted to turn the conversation and he wasn’t having any of that. Nope. Not today. Not tomorrow. Never. Not if he could help it.
“Your breakfast, sweetheart.” Then with a flourish of his hands, he laid her plate in front of her. He took the seat next to her, his heart in his throat, his breath stuck deep in his chest.
When she didn’t say anything immediately, he looked at her, afraid of her reaction but needing to see it, nonetheless.
She wasn’t smiling. Not good.
Her bottom lip looked a bit wobbly. Definitely not good. A strong indication tears were on their way.
His food was going to make her cry, that’s how terrible it was.
Her hands hadn’t left her lap, clasped together. Bad, bad sign.
“Mia?”
She finally turned his way, her eyes glistening with water. His heart pounded, yet in a good way, shockingly.
Because he’d gotten good at reading her. One look in her eyes and he could decipher what she was feeling and thinking. Most of the time. He knew she hid some parts of herself. But the other half of the time, he instinctively knew the emotion pouring out of her. He never questioned it. Never doubted it. And her eyes right now displayed she was feeling overwhelmingly happy. So, why the frown and near tears?
“You have to like waffles. You own a waffle maker. I also remember you ordering it one time for breakfast. With extra whipped cream. You didn’t have any whipped cream, otherwise, I would’ve added that.”
Oh, the things he could do with whipped cream. Yes, please. He’d have to make a store run later because the idea was planted in his head now.
Her hand connected with his cheek, sweeping across it with an aching gentleness.
“You’re not real. You can’t be.”
“I am. And I’m yours.”
Her hand slipped away, resuming its place in her lap as she looked back at the plate of waffles. He had added a dash of cinnamon, something he knew she liked, sprinkled on top, but also a bit in the mixture itself. Chocolate chips dotted around, almost strategically placed in a smiley face, as if he had intended it to look that way. He hadn’t. Luck of the draw when the mixture poured into the waffle maker. But what had her in tears was the added white chocolate-covered pretzels she loved—loved—settled on top of everything, broken into pieces to spell, “I love you.”
Eh, maybe too much. He internally battled with himself about it, but the words won the war. And it hadn’t been easy to get it to look halfway decent. Good thing he liked to bake and experiment with different things on occasion. Big hands, but nimble fingers. Perfect for anything.
Because he did love her.
He’d say it every day, all day, until it sunk in for her to understand how much.
“This is wonderful. A wonderful surprise. I had no idea you could cook like this.”
“I like to cook.” He shrugged, embarrassed. “I like to bake sometimes.”
She tilted her head as a smile spread across her lips. “Really?”
