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“Keep that there,” he orders. He props open the kitchen door, then grabs a folder from the table and waves it over the fire alarm until it stops. The air is only slightly smoky, but it makes me cough anyway. My heart lurches at the casual command in his voice, a traitorous reaction that has me clenching the countertop with my other hand.
First the flood. Now this. He probably thinks I’m an incompetent idiot. The mere thought is enough to make me want to kick something. I’ve never been a damsel in distress, but this is the second time in as many days that he swooped in to save me, and we’re not even friends.
He turns to me, still wearing that careful expression. I can’t tell if it’s because of anger or worry. Hopefully anger. Anger is easier to brush off than worry. “Are you okay?”
I scowl. “Fine.”
He looks at the burnt bacon. “You incinerated that.”
“I got…” I trail off, then brace myself. “I got distracted. Sorry.”
He pulls an ice pack from the freezer and wraps it in a dishcloth. “Here. Sit down.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“Don’t want it to blister,” he says. “Take it.”
I study him. Is he thinking about the night after the bar fight, when he came to me with a bruise on his face? That time, I held out the ice pack. When he fucked me after, it was with a slow tenderness that belied anything that came before. The brush of his hands on my skin was so tender, I couldn’t imagine him ever throwing a punch, even though I’d seen it earlier that evening. For Penny, and for Cooper, but also for me.
I swallow down the mess of words crowding my throat and take the ice pack. I sit at one of the island stools and watch as he throws out the ruined bacon, washes the pan, then dries it and sets it back on the burner.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say as he lays out more bacon.
“Don’t want you to starve,” he says. “You haven’t eaten anything since the oatmeal, have you?”
I sit up straighter. “That’s none of your business.”
“So, I’m right.” He takes a beer out of the fridge, uncaps it using the heel of his hand in a gesture so casual, and unfortunately hot, that it has me staring, and downs half of it in one go. “I’ve seen you when you get into that work mode, you know. Pretty sure I could hit a baseball right at you and you wouldn’t notice until it caught you in the stomach.”
I roll my eyes but accept the beer he gives me. “You’d never do that.”
“No,” he agrees. He turns to the stove, tending to the bacon with a much more careful hand than I had. He takes out a bowl, next, and as I watch, he cracks several eggs into it, and beats them with salt, pepper, and paprika. He pulls shredded cheddar cheese and sour cream from the fridge and folds both into the egg mixture. I know I’m staring, but I can’t help it; he’s working with such a practiced hand, I’m jealous. It reminds me of how Nana flows through the kitchen, as at ease as a sailor on the bow of a ship.
“Why sour cream?” I ask.
“Adds a nice tang,” he says. “Keeps them fluffy, too.”
“I’ve never had them this way.”
“Izzy can’t get enough of them.”
“I talked to her earlier.” I fiddle with the edge of the dishcloth as he takes out another pan and lights another burner. He flips the bacon, too. The kitchen smells delicious, rather than acrid, and with the night air coming through the back door, there’s something cozy about the whole scene. Domestic, almost. “She suggested I drink margaritas and sing along toMamma Mialike your brother.”
He smiles. It’s a smile that lights up his already-handsome face, and my breath nearly catches as I look at it.
“That was incredible,” he says. “I know you’ve only met James once, but trust me—he barely drinks, so when he does, it’s a party.”
I take a sip of my beer. “I decided breakfast for dinner was a more appropriate route.”
“You can’t give bacon too much heat at once, it’ll burn.” He sets several perfectly crisp pieces onto a paper-towel lined plate, then pours the eggs into the other pan. There’s a fond note in his voice, like he’s said this before. I’d bet it was to Izzy.
“Sebastian?”
He glances over his shoulder as he stirs the eggs with a spatula. His hair is still wet from the shower he must have taken after the game.
I wet my lips. “Did you win?”
His expression shutters. “No. Lost in extras.”
