Footsteps creaked behind me, but I didn’t turn to see who had entered. Instead, I focused on my task, continuing to stir slowly and giving the mystery guest a free front-row seat to thethighs and syrup show.
Bryce’s cologne hit me before his voice broke the comfortable silence.
He walked behind me, close enough to spark temptation, and then some. I felt the brush of him against my ass, like he wanted me tofeelwhat was still on his mind.
I didn’t flinch. I chuckled, low and dangerous.
Bryce reached up for a mug from the cabinet like he hadn’t just sent a message with his body. After pouring himself a cup of coffee, he leaned casually against the counter. His eyes traced my movements, lingering on my curves as if he had all morning to undress me with just his gaze, and like the biscuits weren’t the only thing rising.
“You trying to feed everybody… or just torture me?”
I offered him a slow, wicked smile, not bothering to answer. Instead, I poured more syrup over the waffles, allowing it to drip and glisten, each drop a tantalizing tease.
Bryce watched the syrup dance down the waffles like he was contemplating a far more enticing dessert—me.
“That syrup gon’ be the second sweetest thing I taste this morning," he murmured, licking his lips, his voice low and suggestive.
I held my silence; confident my nonverbal response spoke volumes.
“So what’s all on the menu? Shid, I honestly don’t care; it smells better than that bullshit Isis burnt the other day… that’s for damn sure,” he added, shifting the conversation.
“I heard that!” Isis hissed, entering the kitchen with a Chanel bonnet halfway slid off her head, and her face twisted like somebody passed gas.
Ironic, considering she tried to serve us raw-ass pancake batter two days before, like it was a delicacy.
“I meant for you to,” Bryce called back effortlessly.
“You woke up and chose petty, I see!” Isis shot back, folding her arms defiantly across her chest.
“I woke up and choseflavor… something I’m sure your eggs would’ve lacked.”
Isis scoffed, her eyes wide with disbelief. “Whatever! I bet if I cooked in a robe or lingerie, you’d eat my food then!”
“Isis,” Bryce replied, unflinching, “you could be naked, wearing stiletto heels and whipped cream, and I’dstillpass on your food. My stomach’s loyal to whoever knows how to cook without making me sick in the process.”
Isis folded her arms, offended. “Wow. So I’m sexy but deadly?”
Bryce chuckled, taking a leisurely sip of his coffee. “Nah… you’re just a kitchen terrorist with hips.”
“Whatever,” she grumbled, snatching an apple from the center of the table.
In an easy motion, Bryce reached over, snagged a waffle off the plate, and took a slow bite, his eyes never leaving mine.
Mmm,” he moaned, savoring the taste, licking syrup off his thumb like it was the most delectable treat. “Sweet… just like I remember.”
Before I could respond, Adrian strolled in wearing wrinkled joggers and stretching like he was waking from a long, restorative sleep, likely hoping for some awkward breakfast reconciliation after the drama of the previous day.
“Damn, something smells good,” he said, lowering his voice as he leaned closer, his presence intrusive. “Andyoulook even better. If you gon’ play wifey, you should really be mine.”
As his hand inched toward my lower back, I instinctively snatched it away before it could reach my ass.
“Don’t!” My tone was quick, clipped, and crystal clear.
“For real?” Adrian had the audacity to say, like a whole twenty-four hours erased the fact that he was a walking lie wrapped in a cloak of broken promises.
Bryce turned to him, his expression suddenly fierce, eyes sharp. “You heard her, nigga. Don’t touch what ain’t yours.”
Adrian frowned, puffing out his chest slightly as if to intimidate. “Aye, this is between us… me and her. You got your lil’ feelings involved, well, that’s on you. But don’t insert yoself in something that ain't got shit to do with you, nigga."
