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“What song is this?” I ask.
Stopping his singing, he turns around and breaks into a grin. “Hey! This is ‘Motion Sickness’ by Hands Like Houses.”
“I think I like it.” I walk over to him. “Can I help you? I feel bad that I slept through most of this.”
“We can listen to it in the car later if you want. And no, I don’t need help, because I’m glad you got lots of rest and I wanted to do this for you.” He turns back to the stove. “Rae and I want cheese in our eggs. Do you?”
“Sure. Thank you.”
“Yep!”
I notice he isn’t wearing what he had on the last time I saw him. He must’ve gone home before he started cooking—and maybe even to the store, because I’m certain I didn’t have bacon in my fridge. He’s in a brown shirt now, not a white one, and it looks nice on him. Then again, so did the white one.
Like I do every chance I get, I admire the music note tattoos spiraling down his left arm, and in doing so, I spot what looks like flour on one of them. I reach out and brush at it with a finger.
It makes himshiver.
I go still.
He does, too. For a second, anyway, and then he looks at me like…well, I don’t know.
“I’m sorry,” I just about croak.
Kind of.
I clear my throat, curl my finger back to me, and say it again: “I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head. “No. Nah. Don’t be. You’re….” His eyes dart down me and then back up, and he lets out a breathless, almost nervous laugh.
Not knowing what he’s trying to say, I go ahead and explain, “You had something on you. Flour? I think? Maybe? Did you use that for something?”
Now he nods. “Oh, yeah, probably. I mean, Idefinitelydid use it—itprobablywas flour, is what I meant.” He makes a blubbery noise with his lips, shuts his eyes for a second, and then gives me a calm smile. “I made the biscuits from scratch.”
My mouth falls open. “Really?”
“Yep. Only way to do it.”
I snort. “Unless you’re me and the best you can do is the kind from a can.”
With a nudge and a wink, his nervousness from a moment ago gone, he says, “Oh, I can’t let you go on like that. I’ll teach you how to make them this way.” He checks the eggs and turns off the stove. “Not right now, though! It’s eating time!”
I get out some dishes, he turns off his music, and we start making plates and pouring drinks. I get Rae’s done first and call her to the table, and then I serve myself. Landon made a lot of food, which turns out to be a good thing when we all get seated and I notice the mountain of breakfast on his plate.
I laugh about it. Then I take a bite of a homemade biscuit, and my laughter is cut off by stunned silence.
Helaughs as he points his fork at me. “Told you that’s the only way to do biscuits.”
I nod fervently.
The smile he gives me is bright and happy.
“You know,” I muse after I swallow my bite, “I think we should switch Super Fun Saturdays to Super Fun Sundays.”
Rae gasps eagerly. “Yes! Yes! Because we usually see Landon on Sundays!” She looks at him and claps, causing bits of egg to drop off the fork in her hand. “You make Sundays my favorite days!”
I blush as I agree, “Yep, mine, too,” but bending down to pick up the dropped egg gives me a few seconds to compose myself.
At least, I’m composed until I straighten up again and see his smile has grown impossibly brighter. Then I’m blushing even harder because,God,he’s beautiful and he’s obviously genuinely happy.
