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We stand there staring at one another in an awkward silence for a couple of moments. It feels like that strained morning-after tension—but without the benefit of having had the night before. Devon looks down and laughs to herself, breaking that tension.
I give her a smile. “Hungry?”
“Starving, actually.”
“Good,” I say. “Go get dressed and all while I make us some breakfast.”
“You’re going to cook?”
“I am a man of many talents.”
She grins. “Color me skeptical. But I suppose we’ll see.”
Devon walks out of the kitchen, leaving me to my own devices. Admittedly, I’m never going to have my own show on Food Network but I’m not half bad. So, I decide on an omelet and collect everything I need from the refrigerator.
“I’m going to take a shower, if that’s okay,” Devon calls from the back of the condo.
“Go ahead. Mi casa es su casa,” I call back.
While she showers, I make breakfast. By the time she’s done, dressed, and sitting at the table, I’ve got it all laid out.
“Chorizo omelet with cheese and avocado slices, sourdough toast with jam, and bacon,” I proudly announce. “And coffee, of course, if you’re so inclined.”
“In fact, I am so inclined.”
“Good girl. Dig in.”
I watch as she takes the first bite of her food, and she grins around it. “Okay, this is pretty damn good. Really good, actually.”
“I told you. I’m a man of many skills.”
“Clearly.”
We eat in silence for a few minutes, and it somehow feels completely natural. Domestic. We've known each other less than twenty-four hours but sitting here, having a conversation over breakfast with her just feels… normal. Like this is the way things are supposed to be. It shouldn’t. I know it shouldn’t. But it just does.
Devon takes a drink of her coffee and sets the cup down. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Don’t take it the wrong way, okay?”
I laugh. “I’ll do my best.”
“Well… I mean… I know pro athletes make boatloads of money, and I was just kind of curious why you’re living in a one-bedroom condo that’s kind of… small,” she says, eyes darting around my space. “I mean, it’s nice, don’t get me wrong. It’s a hell of a lot nicer than my dorm. But it’s kind of plain and doesn’t really seem like you.”
I raise an eyebrow, a smile curling the corners of my mouth. “And what does seem like me?”
“I don’t know. But I know it’s not this.” She shrugs. “All the furnishings and everything seem like they came with the place. And I don’t see much in the way of personal touches. I thought pro athletes liked to keep their memorabilia—jerseys, balls, trophies. Things like that.”
“First, we call them sweaters, not jerseys. Second, we play with pucks, not balls—”
She rolls her eyes and laughs. “Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.”
“Nah. More like, potato, block of cheese.”
Her giggle is girlish and sweet. She bats her big eyes at me, and as my gaze locks onto hers, Devon’s cheeks turn bright red, and she quickly looks away. She chews her bottom lip, and I’m suddenly glad I’m sitting at the table because my cock stiffens as thoughts of bending her over the table and pounding away on her from behind flash through my head like an erotic highlight reel. I shift in my chair, doing my best to will those thoughts and my hard-on away.
“I’m serious. This place just doesn’t feel like you,” she says. “It seems kind of small for a big guy like you. And even though you don't strike me as the overly sentimental sort, it's just totally sterile. Impersonal.”
