She pauses, turning halfway toward me with one brow raised. “Well, I did in fact have plans. I do have to cut down my original plans, but I do have them.”
“Are you going to tell me your plans?”
“For someone who doesn’t want to be bothered, you are bothering me.”
“I’m just making conversation. What are you doing after you leave then? Going over someone’s house? Celebrating with your new money.”
“Is this your way of asking if I have a man?”
That wasn’t subtle at all, but there is no way she is this pretty and single.
I smirk. “Nah, I don’t care about that. I am making conversation.”
“Since this is your second time asking me in less than twenty-four hours of knowing me, no, I don’t,” she says simply. “I’m single. Grown. And I do have plans for New Year’s, but by then, you’ll just be someone I met once. No need to go into too much detail.”
She turns back to the stove, unfazed.
I watch her quietly for a moment, the smell of syrup and bacon curling through the air.
“Are you ready to eat?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder.
“Oh, I get a plate too?”
“Yeah, why not? I love helping the needy.”
“Sure. What you got, Martha Stewart?”
She slides a plate toward me, piled high with pancakes, eggs, grits, bacon, and a side of fruit. It looks amazing. My stomach growls on cue. After a nap that long, food feels like salvation.
I glance at the clock—1 pm.
“Do you always eat breakfast for dinner?” I ask.
She pulls up the stool next to me, sitting down with quiet confidence. “Yes. It’s tradition. If you don’t mind, I’d love to enjoy it.”
Smirking, I scoop up a spoonful of grits and take a bite—then nearly moan. “Damn, this is good.”
“Thanks,” she says, smiling softly.
We eat in silence. I don’t waste a single crumb. When I finish, I stand to take my plate to the sink. She’s still eating, looking up at me but not saying anything.
“So,” she says finally, “why aren’t you doing anything for the holidays? Didn’t want to be the third wheel for your brother’s anniversary trip?”
I let out a small laugh, but it fades fast. For a second, I think about telling her the truth, that I did have plans. That I was supposed to be proposing to my girlfriend. That instead, I’m here, pretending I don’t care.
But I can’t.
So I go with the safer option. “I don’t celebrate Christmas.”
She tilts her head. “Like a religious thing? Or are you just a Grinch?”
“The third option.”
Her brows lift. “I didn’t give you a third opt?—”
“I’m gonna get ready for bed,” I interrupt, standing. “If you need anything, let me know.”
Sutton swallows the bite she was chewing, rolling her eyes. “I’m probably gonna watch some TV and bake some cookies.”
