By the time Audrey emerges from the bedroom, my cock no longer demands attention.
“Are you cooking?”
The surprise in her tone shouldn’t insult me, but I suppose I deserve it.My father never let any of his family into the kitchen.He always claimed he paid good money for someone less fortunate to prepare our meals.Cooking was beneath us.Even boiling water was a sin.I still have a scar on the back of my hand to prove it.
“I am.Toast, scrambled eggs, and fruit,” I say as I turn off the stove.
After dropping the last spoonful of eggs onto her plate, I turn and set her food on the bar.
“It’s not much, but—”
Audrey’s haunted expression drops my stomach to the floor.
I realize my mistake too late.
I rush around the counter, but she wards me off with an outstretched arm and steps back.
“Thank you, but I don’t eat breakfast.”
She disappears back down the hall to the bedroom.The bathroom door closes with a soft click.
I sigh and rub the back of my neck.I’d feel less guilty if she slammed the door.
Toast, eggs, and fruit was her favorite breakfast for the longest time growing up.No matter what ridiculous thing my father demanded I eat, he always spoiled her and let her have what she wanted.
I wasn’t thinking when I started cooking.I didn’t mean to dredge up memories and would never purposefully do something to put that look on her face.
With my spirits in the gutter, I dump the food in the trash and stack the dirty dishes in the dishwasher before taking a few breakfast bars from the pantry and placing them beside the drinks.
I take my coffee into the living room and stare out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the panoramic view of the cityscape as the first rays of sun gleam on the tops of the buildings.
Less than five minutes later, Audrey emerges wearing yesterday’s suit.I bite back a sigh and recognize her need to don the armor.
She pauses, gives me a once-over, then heads into the kitchen.Unable to resist the draw to be near her, I follow her behind the counter under the guise of putting my mug in the dishwasher.When I stand, she stares down into her coffee without reaching for it.
I close the distance between us and trap her in place with a hand on either side of her on the counter.Her hair, coiled in a loose bun, brushes against my shoulder as she cranes her neck to look back at me.
“I can pour you a fresh cup if it’s gone cold,” I offer.
She turns her attention back to the mug.
“You really are a stalker, aren’t you?”
I hate the flatness of her tone but don’t trust myself, so I keep my hands on the counter and press my chest against her back.
“Why do you say that?”I ask.
“My coffee.”
She sounds too robotic.I lower my head and peer over her shoulder, putting my face next to hers.
“What about it?”I ask.
“You’ve never gotten me coffee before.How do you know how I like it?”she asks.
“Because I’m obsessed with you,” I admit.
She sighs.Her shoulders slump.
