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“I could have taken you out.”
She squeezed my arm. “I thought you liked my cooking?”
“I do, but?—”
“Then shut up and eat it.” She rose on her tiptoes and kissed me before she turned back to the stove.
I grinned as I watched her. “I like it when you tell me to shut up.”
“Good. We’re going to get along just fine, then.” She turned back to the stove and flipped the bacon. “Fix yourself some coffee.”
I walked to her coffeemaker and brewed myself a fresh cup. It was an expensive machine, probably the most expensive thing in the apartment, and it was clear she didn’t settle for less than the best when it came to her morning caffeine. I made my cup of coffee and sat at the dining table, watching her move around the kitchen and finish breakfast. It was a pleasant sight, her little shorts riding up quite a bit.
She set the plate of croissants on the table for us to share then served our meals. We both had a breakfast crepe with a side of bacon. She opened bottles of jam and honey and set them on the table too.
I sliced into the crepe with my fork and took a bite. “Fuck.”
She smirked as she chewed her own food.
“How did you do this?”
“I found the recipe online.”
“Anyone can follow a recipe, but that doesn’t mean it’ll taste as good as this.”
“I mean, I add a couple of other things. And I’m pretty generous with the butter.”
“And you made these?” I took a croissant and smeared the jam across the surface before I took a bite, the outside flaky and the inside warm and soft.
“Yep.”
“You should open a restaurant or something.”
She smirked then cut into her food.
“I’m serious.”
“It’s not as good as your chef’s cooking.”
“This shit is better. I’m not just saying that.”
“Because you’re always eating diet food. This is not diet food.”
“Baby, you’ve got a gift for food, and you’re wasting it by…” I silenced myself before I let the conversation head into a bad territory. A territory that would put distance between us, that would lead to another argument I didn’t want to have. “Never mind.”
She let it slide and ate her food in silence.
“Thank you for this.”
“You’re welcome, babe.”
I stilled when I heard her call me that again. It was nice, like sunshine on a spring day, a hot pie out of the oven on Christmas. My father said I was no son of his, and she basically called me hers. “Babe?”
“What?” she asked, immediately defensive. “You call me baby…among other things.”
“I’m definitely not complaining,” I said with a grin. “I like it.”
Her eyes moved down to her food, but there was a smile in her stare.
