A favorite.
I place it under the drip and push start before rummaging through his cabinets and fridge. It takes a while, but I finally locate pancake mix, frozen blueberries, and sausage.
The pans are surprisingly harder to locate, his kitchen arranged without any real direction or correlation to the appliances.
Nessa would have had a fit by now, and the idea of her destroying the kitchen in search of a mixing bowl has me smiling again.
The coffee machine sputters to a stop, and I wait just a second before bringing the mug to my nose and inhaling the rich, delicious aroma. Forgoing cream or sugar, I take a tentative sip and stifle a moan as the hot liquid slides down my throat.
It’s life-giving.
Thank God.
Moderately more awake, I grab my phone, ignoring the time, and pull up my party girl playlist. “Ain’t it Fun” by Paramore fills the room, and I turn it to low before placing the pans on the stove and getting to work.
ROYCE
Kinsley Dane cooking me breakfast,in my apartment, while wearing my clothes was not on my bingo card for December.
But hell if I don’t love it.
“Mornin’,” I say, my voice deeper and scratchier than I anticipated, the lack of sleep the last few nights clearly not helping.
Kinsley whirls around, spatula in hand, and grins.
“Mornin’, Roy. You’re looking deliciously rumpled this morning.”
My brain works through her words like I’m crawling through molasses. They sound like a compliment, and the smirk she’s giving me is probably a good indicator—but I need coffee.
Like every ounce in my apartment.
“Here, until you’re more awake.”
She hands me a half-empty cup of black coffee, making me scrunch up my nose in horror.
“What is this?”
“Coffee,” she deadpans, popping her hip and waving the spatula around, “obviously.”
“But like, where’s the stuff that makes it not taste like gasoline?”
“That’s awfully dramatic.”
I don’t dignify that with a response, reaching around her to grab my own mug, using more force than necessary to get the pod set and the coffee brewing.
Kinsley’s shoulders shake with silent laughter, and I roll my eyes, patting her ass to move her out of the way so I can grab the sugar bowl above the stove.
It’s a solid three seconds after the pat, while reaching for the sugar, that it registers what I’ve done.
She’s amused—not offended—as I set the ceramic bowl on the counter and blink at her.
“Do you often go around patting the asses of the women making you breakfast, Roy?”
“You’d be the first.”
“Lucky me.” She winks and I can feel my cheeks heat. I should say something—anything—but I just stare at her, taking in how stunning she looks with her hair in a messy bun, flipping pancakes just because she can. Eyes full of mischief, her hand grips my shirt as she pops up onto her toes and kisses me. “Next time just own it.”
“Sure,” I mutter as she releases me and I hurry to make my coffee. I need caffeine before I drop to my knees and tell her I want to eatherfor breakfast.
