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Was he always like this? In his own home? Or did I make it worse?
“I wouldn’t trust me with the actual cooking, but I have decent chopping skills. Or at least, that’s what my mom has always told me.”
“Well, seeing as I haven’t been to the grocery store this week, our options might be limited,” he explained.
His head was bent forward as he inspected the contents of his fridge, and I had to turn my head to force myself not to stare at the way his ass looked in those rugged pants, or how his tight black shirt accentuated his massive biceps.
I’d seen him around town, wearing a complex black vest that stretched over his broad chest.
It was a good look—I wasn’t gonna lie.
“How do you feel about pancakes?”
I laughed. “You don’t have much, but you have pancakes?”
His eyes glimmered with amusement. “You really don’t know much about cooking, do you? Pancakes have, like, five ingredients.”
“Besides the mix?” I was confused.
“I thought you said you helped your mom in the kitchen?” he asked as he began taking items out of the fridge—butter, eggs, and milk.
“I said I chopped things, not help,” I clarified, taking a seat on a lone barstool at his small kitchen island. “There’s a difference. My sister was the helper.”
“So, is she a good cook?”
“No,” I shook my head. “To my German mother’s utter disappointment, none of us are. My brother is an utter failure as well.”
“Are you the oldest?” he asked, appearing genuinely interested as he moved around the kitchen with ease.
I liked watching him.
“Um, yes. Not by much though. My sister, Margo, and I are only two years apart. Our brother, Alex, is seven years younger than me, and very much the baby of the family.”
The rapid-fire questions seemed to pause for a moment as he gathered bowls and other items from the pantry, his expression somewhat unreadable.
“Do you have any siblings?” I asked, hoping to keep the conversation going.
I liked talkative Macon. I much preferred him over bossy Macon or stoic Macon.
Although I’d take any version over the sad version I had seen the moment we walked into this house.
“A brother,” he answered, averting his gaze from mine. “But I haven’t seen him in a long time.”
When he didn’t elaborate more, I decided to change the subject. Family did not appear to be an agreeable topic.
“Do you like living in Ocracoke?” I asked. “Have you ever lived anywhere else?”
He started throwing ingredients in a bowl, almost like it was second nature. He didn’t use measuring spoons and cracked eggs one-handed, and he did it all while carrying on a conversation.
I’d never once found cooking to be sexy in my life.
Turned out, there was a first for everything.
“Well, your first question is complicated. Do I like living here? Sometimes. On the days when I get to run on the beach in the middle of December? Yeah, I love it. Then, there are the days when I have to step into situations I’d rather not know about. Kind of hate it then.”
“Oh God.” I winced. “I’d never thought of that. How awful.”
“It’s not great, but—” He gave a sort of shrug. “Someone has to do it.”
