Frankie seems unbothered and simply chews his bacon while I cup my hands around his face and pepper him with ridiculous nicknames. His brother stands by, tail wagging as he waits obediently for his turn. “And you, too, Ozzy. My little grouchy boy, Oscar Meyer, Oscar Isaac, Oscar de laRen-ta.”
Oscar’s ears twitch, and the little shit abandons me in the middle of our daily affirmations to join Frankie in welcoming the room’s newest occupant. I roll my eyes when I hear Rowan greeting the dogs by name again in his husky morning voice and busy myself with pouring a cup of coffee.
Rowan clears his throat, presumably to get my attention, and I turn to find him standing there with a wiener dog draped over each of his forearms, grinning while they take turns licking his chin. It all seems wholly unfair, to be honest.
“Good morning,” he says cheerfully.
“Morning,” I reply flatly.
His eyes run over me before he seemingly thinks better of it, and he squints to focus on my face after that. “You’re up early.”
My brow lifts. “Did you take me for a late riser?”
“No, I guess not,” he says, chuckling to himself as he sets the dogs down. “How did you sleep?”
“Fine.” But I frown, because of course he’s going to be polite and cute, despite having a shitty evening before. And now I’m a jerk if I don’t engage with him, when I’d actually been hoping to find his truck missing by the time I’d gotten up.
“And you?” I ask after some hesitation.
“I slept surprisingly well,” he says, smiling.
I nod and fidget uncomfortably, since I’ve apparently forgotten how to do this morning stuff after living solo for the better part of the past year.
“That coffee smells heavenly,” Rowan volunteers.
“Uh, yeah. Help yourself,” I blurt out and take a seat.
“Thanks.” He smiles again and gestures in front of the cabinet, wordlessly asking for a mug after my awkward ass assumed he’d just drink it from the carafe.
“I don’t have any creamer or anything, but there’s sugar in that canister and milk in the fridge,” I add begrudgingly.
He shakes his head as he pours. “You took your coffee black last time, so I wasn’t exactly expecting a fancy peppermint mocha or a pumpkin spice latte.”
Remembering how I like my coffee earns him another eye roll. “Let me guess, creamer is another one of those comfort drugs you try to avoid?”
“More or less,” he says with a shrug and sits across from me. I notice he’s holding a string of beads in his hand. “Do you always have your morning coffee in the kitchen?”
“Depends on the weather, I guess. Why do you ask?”
“Just pictured you drinking your first cup of theday outside as you watch the sun come up,” he muses. “Or better yet, while you’re tending to your chickens in the backyard.”
I narrow my eyes, unsure of how I feel after his assessment. “I don’t have enough room for a chicken coop out back. Besides, it’s a little too chilly for that this morning.”
“All the more reason for you to invest in flannel PJs, or at least a fuzzy robe,” he drawls and takes a sip.
“Seems like a waste, since men don’t usually mind my slutty pajamas,” I retort, and his smile fades.
“Right,” he says quietly, keeping his icy blue eyes trained on his mug after that.
“I guess you’ll be needing a ride to Coach Reed’s soon,” I begin when I can’t take the silence any longer.
“If it’s not too much trouble.” He sounds distracted as he moves his fingers over the next bead on that strand. It must be a rosary, like the ones I’ve seen Daisy and my Catholic great-grandmother use for prayer. I’m tempted to point out the predictability of his morning habits, but he’d only take it as a compliment.
“Anything else while we’re at it?” I rise and tug down on my shirt self-consciously before I bring my mug to the sink. “Don’t worry, I’ll put on some pants before we go.”
“Guess I could use another do-over and the ability to say the right thing around you for once,” he mumbles before he crosses himself with the rosary beads and slips them into his pocket.
“You’re fine. It’s probably for the best if we weren’t really friends, anyway,” I say, my voice thick.
