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I open the cupboard, though, and find some good old flour, baking powder and soda, and superfine sugar. “I want buttermilk, not milk. Where do you keep the eggs? And get the butter while you’re at it.”
“Are you going to make me breakfast, princess?”
I don’t have to glance back to know the jerk is smug as hell. “I’m making myself breakfast. You can have my leftovers.”
I’m not much of a cook, but I can handle pancakes. I used to make them for Willow for Sunday brunch. I never was awake early enough for breakfast after working at Silks every weekend.
“I thought you’d have a fancy mixer,” I grumble when my wrist starts to hurt.
Camden’s made himself comfortable on the breakfast counter, happy to let me take over. At least he melted the butter.
“Oh, yeah, we do, somewhere down there.” He gestures vaguely to the whole kitchen.
I snort, but don’t bother voicing my contempt.
“Don’t be like that. I can totally take care of myself. I can grill steak. And you know, boil water for pasta.”
“How often do you burn them? And do you know where you keep your pans?”
“Right under the sink.”
That makes little sense. In any kitchen I’ve seen, they tend to keep cleaning products there. Still, I’m not one to question his layout. I open the cupboard and find…cleaning products.
“Oh, never mind, I think it’s that cupboard over there,” he says, tilting his chin toward the left.
I take in everything from his smirk to his leering gaze, fixed on my legs.
What an asshole.
I ignore his direction and check the most logical place—the drawer under the stove.
Lifting a pan, I raise an eyebrow.
“Oh, would you look at that,” Camden says, the corner of his lips curving further up again. “I really don’t spend that much time in the kitchen.”
“Huh-uh.”I shake my head, faking exasperation. “Do you have blueberries?”
“Probably.” He goes to check the fridge, and despite myself, my eyes are drawn to him as he moves.
It’s just unfair that someone as twisted at him looks like he stepped out of aGQmagazine, all airbrushed.
“And a shirt? Do you have a shirt?”
Camden’s grin tuns almost boyish, goofy. “If you look at me like that when I’m not wearing one, I don’t.”
Jerk.
He hands me a clear container full of small, dark berries. I pop one in my mouth before mixing them in the batter.
I moan in surprise. I eat blueberries pretty often—they’re Willow’s favorite, and they often have them in the kitchen at the café, as the chef makes blueberry pancakes. None I’ve ever ingested tastes like this. “Where do you buy these?”
“Do I look like I do my own grocery shopping? I can ask the personal shopper.”
“Don’t bother.” If he needs a personal shopper to acquire it, I can’t afford it.
I check the overhead cupboards until I find plates and start to serve the first few pancakes. “Make yourself useful and set the table at least.”
“Wow, is that pancakes?” Roman bounces into the kitchen. “Dude! I see the point of having girls who stick around, after all.”
