“Duh.”
He laughed. “Since we spent so much of the night—and this morning—swappin’ spit, I didn’t think you’d mind if I used it.”
I rolled my eyes. “Swappin’ spit? Seriously?”
Again he laughed. “Don’t spend too much time in the bathroom, babe. I cook, but I also eat.”
“Fair warning?”
Sighting over his thumb, he aimed his finger at me. “Got it in one.”
In fascination I watched him tug his jeans up his long, muscular legs and sighed when he covered the gorgeous sight of pecs and abs with his Henley. His teasing grin said he knew exactly what I was thinking, but his stomach rumbled again. He glanced down at himself and back at me, and we exchanged a grin before he turned on his heel and headed to my tiny kitchen.
After a quick shower, I slipped on a pair of yoga pants and a sweater and seated myself on one of the two stools at the bar separating my kitchen and living room. Wyatt quietly hummed as he stirred eggs in a pan on the stove. A second later toast popped up from the toaster, and he left the eggs to butter it after popping down a couple more pieces. I started to tell him I wouldn’t eat that much toast when he interrupted.
“I noticed you have yogurt and berries in your fridge too. You wanna hop up and make us each a bowl?”
My eyes grew as big and round as the plates he pulled from the cupboard to slide our breakfast onto. “Eggs, a mound of toast, and yogurt and fruit?”
Over his shoulder, he shot me a look. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”
“Yeah, but—”
“This is all I could find in your fridge.” He plated the eggs and buttered the next batch of toast. “I’ll buy you some groceries so you’re better prepared next time.”
Next time. He’d said it so casually, so confidently. Like we were really doing this, sharing a relationship. Like it was natural.
Setting the eggs and toast in front of me, he returned to the cupboard and pulled out a couple of bowls. “In case you were wondering, you’re not much of a sous chef.” His eyes danced as he shot me a grin before he filled the bowls with yogurt, finishing off the full carton I’d anticipated would last me for most of the week.
I hopped up and helped him wash fruit. By the time I’d washed a couple handfuls of raspberries, he was already expertly hulling strawberries and cutting halves over the yogurt. In a minute, a massive breakfast awaited us on the bar.
“Out of curiosity, how many relationships have you had?” I asked around a mouthful of fluffy, buttery eggs.
“Counting you?”
I nodded.
“Two.” He added pepper to his eggs. “You don’t eat hot sauce, huh? Kinda surprising.”
My brow shot up.
“What with you being as hot as you are.” Gently shoulder-bumping me, he shot me a side-eye.
“Still think you need to use lines on me?”
“I’ll probably still use lines when we’re eighty.” He finished off his second slice of toast and most of his eggs.
Honestly, the way the man put away breakfast was astonishing.
Staring at my plate, I said, “That sounds a little permanent for this only being your second relationship.” At the risk of unleashing the green-eyed monster, I glanced at him. “Tell me about your first one.”
Without missing a beat, he said, “Kelly-Jo Harris, senior year of high school.” He finished off his eggs and stirred fruit into his yogurt. “She was a cheerleader.”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course she was.”
An unapologetic smirk stole over his features. “What can I say? I love short skirts on long-legged women. Anyway, she was fun.” His face clouded. “Then Louisville offered for Sammy Price to play for them, D-1, fast-track to the pros. I got offered mostly D-1A. More work, no guarantees, even for the son of a former NFL player. So she dumped me and followed him to the Cardinals. Last I heard, they’re engaged.” When he stabbed his spoon into his yogurt and filled his mouth with a monster-size bite, I had no trouble with interpretation.
Guess Wyatt had his own version of The Fuckery.
