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Me, I’m easy to impress.
“So this is my little girl,” Archer concludes the tour.
“Little girl? You serious?” I roll my eyes at him.
“Dad used to have one twice this size parked in Monaco.”
In his boxers, barefoot, without having taken his usual shower first thing in the morning, Archer looks so homey that the sight warms my heart. Especially when he stands rubbing the insole of his one foot on the arch of the other, his hair full of cowlicks, so endearingly messy next to the slickserpeggiantefreakingmarble.
I’m in his buttoned-up white shirt I pulled from his closet, but I feel like royalty following him around. It’s not the people that create a sense of class and division, but objects mostly. This is unnecessary yet mesmerizing and elegant luxury.
“Does this place come with any good food in stock?” I joke, famished by now.
Archer leads me to the kitchen—yep, bigger than my current bungalow, though I didn’t pay attention yesterday.
He pulls out bottles of juice from the fridge, then rummages in the cupboards and turns toward me with an apologetic look on his face and a bottle in his hand.
“Almond milk for pancakes? Possible? These are the only things in the cupboard. I don’t think this kitchen has ever been used.”
“That’s what’s on the menu?” I ask.
“Unless you want MDMA. Found a bottle.” He grins, and I burst out in laughter.
Eventually, he gives up the search. “Okay, so I’m gonna impress you and make you pancakes. Works?”
“Impress me,” I say theatrically as he motions to the kitchen island and I take a seat.
I highly doubt he’ll pull this off, but I wanna see him try.
And I watch him.
And I watch some more.
I can watch him endlessly.
The terrace doors of the lounge are open to the middle deck, letting in a fresh breeze. The water lapping at the hull makes for a special soundtrack, and I prop my head with my palm as I dreamily study Archer next to theinductionfreakingstove with a touch display. Seriously, this place will turn me into a material girl.
Archer makes this sound that I’ve never heard before, and I prick my ears in curiosity.
Whoa.
He’s humming a song under his breath. I grin but don’t say anything—it’s my doing, thank you very much. He’s all mine. Those strong arms, stirring the pancake batter like he’s never touched a bowl before. That sculpted body. Those freaking boxers with little waves on them—I thought patterned fabric was a taboo in his wardrobe. That hair that he blows off his face as he obviously struggles, the counter already a mess, the frying pan sizzling on high heat as he shakes off several scoops of batter into it.
He’s adorable—a word that I would’ve never used to describe Archer Crone in my wildest dreams several months ago.
Except now, things are different.
And also, this very minute, I feel like I’m gonna drop dead from starvation if he continues playing the chef.
The burning smell floats through the air, so I finally jump off the stool and walk up to him.
“I got it. Sit down,” I order, nudging him away as he wipes his cheek with his forearms, already smudged with batter.
Yup, the pancakes are burnt.
I’ll never tell anyone Archer Crone is a crappy cook. He’s a talented quarterback and fighter. Wins motorcycle races and has a pilot’s license. He’s a wizard in organic chemistry and DNA chains. He’s my Tony Stark. But pancakes are a mystery to him. Go figure this guy.
Ten minutes later, we sit at the kitchen island and eat perfect pancakes.
