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My expertise is in cutting into people and bringing them out of the cruel grip of death. Not cooking a five-star dinner, so I hope she’ll enjoy the French toast bake I made. The sweet smell wafts through the kitchen as I pull the pan out of the oven and set it off to the side to cool.
My stomach rumbles at the vision. Gentle peaks of toasty bread with cinnamon dusted crests beg to be picked at. It’s got to be delicious. I grab a piece of pineapple from the fruit plate I picked up. I figured that would save time than spend forever chopping it all myself.
Plus, cutting up a pineapple seems scarier than surgery. At least I have assistance in the operating room.
Sucking the juice off my thumb, the doorbell rings, and a grin breaks out on my face. I have been dying to see her since we left the restaurant. And I was only able to get by on the few texts we exchanged.
She insisted on driving herself, even though I wanted to pick her up. Every extra second I can spend with her is worth the trip, but she’s a practical woman.
Launching myself to the door, I open up to the most beautiful sight. She stands there with her hair down, dancing slightly in the breeze, with a form-fitting emerald green sweater dress cinched in by a black belt at the waist and black leggings, with ankle boots.
Her curves have me salivating, but I look behind her and don’t see a car.
“Hello.” She smiles at me, turns around, and gazes back at me as her eyes soften at what she guesses I’m thinking. “My friend insisted on driving me.”
“Come in.” I step back from the entry to let her pass, and I instinctively inhale her delicate and intoxicating scent, something floral, but I don’t know the exact flower. “So she is picking you up at a certain time?”
Nicklin’s eyes look down at the floor, and a blush pools on her cheeks. “Not necessarily, just if I call.”
I gulp as my cock pulses and cheers to hear the recent development.
But a frog is in my damn throat when I go to speak. “Well then,” is all I can croak out.
Nicklin smirks. “Smells great in here.”
I lead her to the dining table.
“Breakfast for dinner.”
“BFD!”
“Yes. BFD. I thought my family was the only one who called it that.”
Nicklin gets comfortable in her seat and gazes at the massive spread. I got a little carried away and could feed twenty people.
“Nope. And I love breakfast and brunch. All of it.”
The steam still rises from the French toast bake, but I slice into it. This is the best way to eat it. Piping hot so the drizzle of frosting or maple syrup melts into it.
Dishing everything up, I open the champagne and pour it into her glass with some OJ.
“I haven’t had a mimosa in forever.” She lifts the light orangey-yellow glass. “I missed you. Mimosa is the happiest drink, I swear.”
I smile at her delightful way of seeing things. She just keeps getting better and better.
She takes a sip, and her bright eyes widen. “Oh, my God. Yes, this is good.” She looks over the spread. “And French toast bake, and bacon—”
“Candied bacon.”
“Oh, pardon me,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “Candied bacon, how bougie of you.”
Her excitement and appreciation have my heart pounding to hear more. No woman has ever affected me like this. Her love of food will cause many issues for me down the road. I can already tell.
Worth a few — or more — extra minutes on the treadmill.
“Thank you. Breakfast is one of the meals I can cook well.”
“If you do it this fancy at night, I wonder what it looks like in the morning.”
