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I creep out of bed, trying not to wake him. I have no idea what time it is, only that it’s morning and the sun is up. I find my purse sitting on the chair in his bedroom, and I grab my phone out of it. The battery’s about to die, but at least I see the time. Seven forty-five a.m.
I’m planning to work from home today, so this is an opportunity for me. I can start some coffee and make Hunter breakfast.
Start getting him to fall in love with me.
I smile.
I fell in love so quickly. And so quickly after Penn. Perhaps because Hunter’s everything Penn wasn’t. He’s the anti-Penn. I giggle at the thought. But then I stop, still not wanting to wake Hunter.
Does he even eat breakfast? Probably. He’s obviously in amazing shape, and I know he works out and runs. Probably a high-protein breakfast for him. Or some kind of smoothie with lots of whey protein and greens.
Blech.
I like to run, but I draw the line at kale protein shakes.
I grab his shirt from the floor and throw it over my shoulders. It covers me like a minidress, and I close my eyes and inhale his musky and masculine scent.
Does anything ever feel better than wearing the shirt of the man you love?
Infusing yourself with the smell and feel of him?
I patter out to the kitchen and look around.
It’s a tiny kitchen, smaller even than my own, which surprises me. But when you convert a brownstone, you work with the space you have. He has two bedrooms whereas I have only one.
A drip coffeemaker sits on the counter, so that’s my clue that he drinks coffee—that and the fact that he was at the coffee shop. My search yields coffee beans and a grinder. Shoot. As much as I do love freshly ground coffee, I don’t want to wake Hunter. But I can’t find any ground coffee.
I walk quietly back to the bedroom and shut the door. Maybe that will help keep the coffee grinder noise from waking him.
Once the coffee is brewing, I look in his refrigerator. Sure enough, a dozen eggs sit on the top shelf, along with a package of bacon. I also find some English muffins and strawberry jam.
I have no idea how he likes his eggs, but I like mine scrambled. This is mostly because I never learned the secret to flipping. I always break the yolk. I don’t like them sunny-side up because they’re kind of gloppy on top.
So scrambled it will be. I make great scrambled eggs. The secret is not to use milk at all and to whisk them until they’re really fluffy. Also to fry them in butter. Nothing else will do. Not bacon fat, not coconut oil, not cooking spray.
Only butter.
I start the bacon first in a cast-iron skillet that I find. When it’s nearly done, I throw the English muffins in the toaster and begin the scrambled eggs.
I’m lost in my own little fantasy of a life with Hunter when something grazes my neck.
I turn and jump.
He stands there, wearing nothing but his jeans.
I can’t help but gawk at him.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s okay.” I glance down at the frying pan. “I hope you like scrambled eggs.”
“Love them.” He grabs two mugs out of the cupboard. “Coffee?”
“Absolutely.”
“Cream and sugar?”
“Just black, thanks.”
He pours a cup and hands it to me, and then he pours his own cup, walks to the refrigerator, and adds a touch of cream.
“No sugar?”
“Nope. I like just a tiny bit of cream to break it up a little bit.”
I finish the eggs, and he gets out two plates. The English muffins pop out of the toaster.
“Could you get those?” I ask.
“Sure.”
He grabs the English muffins, sets them on each plate, and then I add the bacon and eggs.
He brings the plates to the table while I grab our mugs of coffee.
“Dig in,” I say.
He smiles and takes a bite of eggs, swallows, and picks up a slice of bacon. “Frankie, I want you to know that I don’t usually let women spend the night with me.”
“I figured that, given your history.”
“What I’m trying to say is…” He rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t plan on doing it last night.”
I stop chewing. Is he sorry? Did he not want this?
“I didn’t plan to,” he continues, “but I’m really glad you’re here.”
I resume chewing and swallow. “That’s good, I guess. I didn’t plan to spend the night, either. I think we fell asleep.”
“We did. I woke up about an hour later, and you looked so peaceful I couldn’t bear to wake you. So I moved you to the head of the bed and covered you.”
“Thank you,” I say.
He couldn’t bear to wake me. So that means…he kind of wanted to kick me out but then couldn’t bear to. I can’t quite figure out if that’s good or bad.
