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I took a deep breath.
I mentally yelled at myself to pull myself together.
On my stroll back to the kitchen, Atlas met me halfway, coffee cup in hand.
An old looking mug with some random logo on it.
“Chicago,” he said to me.
“Ah. You collect mugs from hockey teams you played for?”
“Not necessarily. But I have some junk from every team.”
“You get around a lot,” I said.
Atlas smirked. “Not so much right now.”
He looked down at my stomach.
Another killerswoontype moment.
I took the coffee mug from Atlas and looked down.
“Black coffee,” I whispered.
“No good?”
“Um, no.”
Finally! He does something wrong!
I pushed by Atlas and went into the kitchen.
I had no idea where anything was, which left me no choice but to tell him how I liked my coffee.
Then I felt trapped in the corner since he took up so much space as he cooked for us.
I watched the way he held a spatula, the way his wrist moved and the way muscles flexedeverywhere.
I had no idea flipping a pancake made muscles in your shoulder and stomach move the way his did.
I reminded myself not to drool.
I also reminded myself that I needed to find a private way to handle myself so I could get some personal relief and not act like this in front of Atlas.
“So,” Atlas said, “do we have something to eat first before I tell you what’s happened since last night…?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You bailed me out of jail.”
“I’m aware. I was there.”
“The good news on my end is that nothing legal is happening to me,” he said.
“Wow, how nice to hear.”
“Look, this guy was just running his mouth…”
