He shrugs, unfazed. “That’s what it’s for.” He gestures at the coffee maker. “Grab yourself a cup. Mugs are in the cabinet to your left.”
I do as I’m told, because one, I really want coffee, and two, there’s something about Flint that makes me want to be really, really good at following directions. Even if it’s just about breakfast beverages.
I pour a cup and sidle to the island, leaning against the marble. I take a sip of the black gold and groan my appreciation. “This is good.”
“I’m glad you like it.” He gives me a smile that turns my insides to mush. “Have a seat.” He points at the breakfast bar. “And talk to me while I cook our breakfast.” My entire body is a vibrating bundle of nerves, and I nearly miss the stool when I plunk myself down. Honestly, it’s a miracle I don’t topple onto the floor and die of mortification right here and now. No one would blame me. I mean, Flint in gray sweatpants at sunrise? That’s basically a cardiac event just waiting to happen.
He flips another pancake and tosses me a look over his shoulder. “You always this quiet in the morning, or is it me making you nervous?”
Oh, God. Direct hit. My face blazes like a Christmas tree, all flashing lights and sirens. “I’m not nervous,” I lie, immediately blowing it by almost knocking my coffee off the counter. I clutch the mug with both hands and try not to sweat through my yoga pants.
He grins, like he knows exactly what I’m doing. I kind of want to throw a pancake at his perfect smile, but mostly, I want to do something wildly inappropriate to his face. Like, say, climb it.
God, what is wrong with me? I’m not one of those girls who loses her mind at the sight of biceps. Or sweatpants. Or… okay, wow,apparently, I am absolutely that girl. Because, holy shit, Flint cooking breakfast is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
He leans back against the counter, spatula in one hand, and grins at me like he just caught me peeking at his Christmas present early.
“Hope you’re hungry, Sugar Plum.” He plates another stack of pancakes, then grabs something from the fridge. “You want syrup or jam? Or do you prefer your pancakes naked?”
Oh my God. Did he just say naked on purpose?
My face heats up like a six-alarm fire. “Uhh… whatever’s easiest. Syrup is great.”
“Good choice.” He finds the syrup, flips the cap, and pours the thick, golden stuff all over my pancakes while I try not to watch the way his forearms flex. Or the way his sweatpants leave nothing to the imagination.
Honestly, it should be illegal to look that good before 9 a.m.
He slides the plate in front of me, and my stomach growls loudly as I stare down at the mile-high stack of pancakes and thick-cut bacon.
Oh God. I’m in so much trouble here. I need to get my hormones under control.
I take a bite of pancake, and it’s so good I make an involuntary noise—somewhere between a sigh and a moan.
He just… stares. His eyes are pinned to my mouth. Dark, hot, and so intense I nearly melt off the damn stool.
I want to say something witty, but my brain does that thing where it goes blank, and all I can do is sit there, cheeks blazing, fork halfway to my lips.
“Got a little…” His voice is a rumbly hush as he leans toward me. His gaze never leaves my lips.
His thumb swipes the tiniest drip of syrup from the corner of my mouth. I swear, I forget how to function as a human. Oxygen? Never heard of it.
He brings that syrup-coated thumb to his mouth and licks it clean. Just casually, no big deal, as if he isn’t standing two feet away from me, wearing sweatpants that leave exactly zero to the imagination.
Oh my God.
My brain short-circuits. I forget my own name.
“Eat up, Sugar Plum.” Flint pours himself a mug of coffee and leans his hip against the counter, watching me intently. “Gotta make sure you keep your strength up after yesterday’s adventure.”
I make some kind of noise, probably a whimper, as I stuff another forkful of pancake in my mouth.
Flint laughs, low and rumbling, and sets about making his own plate.
“So,” he says, sliding onto the stool next to mine, “what’re your plans for the day?”
I take another bite before answering. “I… have to figure out how to get my car fixed. And look for a miracle job that’ll pay for my car repairs. And if I have any extra, I’ll start looking for a newapartment, since you made a pretty convincing case about my current living situation.” I glance sideways at him. “Do you make it a habit of rescuing damsels in distress?” Please say I’m the only one.
His mouth quirks. “Never have before.” He takes a bite of pancake, chews, and looks me up and down. “But you’re the exception to the rule.” My heart does this weird, throbbing little backflip. I swear to God, I can actually feel it. I try to play it cool, but nope. There’s no hiding the red blush crawling up the side of my face.
