“Ouch. I winced, a tiny ball of awful bubbling up unexpectedly.
“I shouldn’t say that. It makes me seem pathetic, doesn’t it?”
“Pathetic, no, not at all,” I said, tightening my ties a little more. “But maybe it was the best thing? I mean, obviously it was hell, but wasn’t it better to find out before rather than after?” I asked, and not just to Lucas. Justifying to the universe a little?
“Pretty and practical,” he mused, smiling down at me. “You’re lethal, you know that?”
My breath caught as I looked up at him through my lashes, peeking at the cute in front of me.
“You’re blushing,” he murmured, and I turned toward the kitchen, knowing he’d follow.
“Let me blush while I make breakfast,” I said, keeping my tone light.
“Challenge accepted,” he said, stepping into the kitchen behind me.
“No challenge was offered. You can’t accept something that wasn’t offered,” I said, taking a position on one side of the enormous kitchen island. I leaned forward a little, my robe falling open just slightly.
“Lethal,” he whispered, leaning against the island on the other side, eyes a bit dazed.
“I’m going back to my onions now, okay?”
“Do it,” he breathed, and a maniacal giggle escaped my lips.
Shaking my head, I turned to the stove. “Can you grab the butter from the fridge? Top shelf, on the right.”
“Got it. Need anything else in here?”
“The cheddar cheese, actually, bottom drawer.”
“Cheese doesn’t go in the bottom drawer.”
“Sure it does.”
“No, it doesn’t. Vegetables go in the bottom drawer. Cheese goes in this small drawer here, marked Dairy,” he insisted, pointing it out to me. “But you’ve got—good lord, are you hoarding pudding?”
“You. Get. Outta there.” I laughed, tugging at his arm and moving him away from my stash.
“Seriously, I’m pretty sure that’s all the chocolate pudding in town. You some kind of doomsdayer?”
“What?” I asked, grabbing the cheddar cheese and shooing him away from the fridge.
“You know, like those guys who hide out in bunkers and squirrel away canned food and guns in case of a zombie apocalypse. Except you’re going to fight the zombies with pudding,” he explained as I marched him to the table in the breakfast nook and sat him firmly in a chair.
“Yes, that’s exactly my plan. However did you guess?” I replied deadpan, batting my eyelashes at him. “You want bacon in your omelet?”
“Of course,” he answered, and I started whisking eggs and crumbling up bacon I had left over from yesterday. I began sautéing the onions in a bit of butter, then turned to ask him why he had nothing better to do on a beautiful Sunday morning than paint my barn, when I noticed he’d disappeared.
“Lucas?” I asked, and he popped his head out from the pantry.
“Holy hell, there’s another case of pudding in here! And seven, no, eight boxes of chocolate Pop-Tarts!”
“Okay, that’s it. Get out of my pantry; you’re a pest!” I shouted, marching him once more to the table. “Don’t make fun of my consolation chocolate.”
“Your what?” he asked, confusion all over his gorgeous face. Oh, man, I was in trouble.
“My consolation chocolate. I went through a breakup. I’m entitled. Besides, you should have seen the diet my mother had me on to fit into my wedding dress. Ugh.” I cracked eggs angrily into a bowl and whisked with a vengeance. “I am owed that chocolate.”
“I believe you,” he replied, watching me pour the eggs into the onion mixture.
“I’d ask you to pour the orange juice, but I’m afraid I’d have to hear about the chocolate milk,” I said, looking at him over the burners.
“Can I have some of it?”
“My chocolate milk?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure.”
“Then you won’t hear a word about it,” he answered promptly, heading back to the fridge. He got out both, and I nodded him toward the cupboard where the glasses were kept. A few minutes later we were sitting at the table with full plates and glasses in front of us. We grinned at each other across the tops of our glasses and dug in.
“This is really good,” he told me as demolished half the omelet in two forkfuls.
“Thanks.”
I sat contentedly for a moment, listing to the scrape and clink of his fork as he polished off the other half. In just a few short weeks I’d gotten used to the quiet, but the silence of one is very different than the silence of two. It was nice to have another scrape and clink in the kitchen.
“So what’s with the house?” he asked suddenly and, surprised, I choked on my orange juice. “You okay?” He thumped me on the back.
“Sorry, wrong pipe. What did you mean?”
“This crazy pad, man—these ring-a-ding-ding digs. I feel like I should be saying things like chickie baby.”
“Ah, yes. Well, it’s not my taste, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Are you kidding? This place is great!” he said with such enthusiasm that I found myself smiling again. I sure did smile a lot around this guy.
“Thanks, it’s my dad’s. It’s been in the family for years, but we hardly ever use it. Hence, the very out-of-date decor.”