“Nah,” he says, sticking his fork into the dessert. “It’s just us.”
I’m somehow loving the fact that he’ll just eat a dessert straight out of the container.
“Fuck,” he moans as he tilts his head backward and goes in for a second bite.
“Good?”
“See for yourself. It’s amazing.” Taking his fork, he scoops up a giant piece and brings it to my mouth. “Try it.” He licks his lips, and I hesitantly open my mouth.
I guess I’m going to let him feed me.
My tongue runs between my lips, tasting the sweet flavor and feeling pretty fucking proud I made that.
“It’s good,” I say, reaching for a paper towel on his counter.
He nods. “So fucking good.”
He closes the container, my fork still in his hand, and his eyes firmly locked on me as he licks it clean.
There’s a dance happening in my lower stomach that I have absolutely zero control over as I watch him suck on the fork before he places it in the sink. When he finally turns away, I let out the breath I’ve been holding and finally regain some of my composure.
“So I’m really only great at making omelets. I’m sure that comes as a shock to you since I’m so good at everything else.” The corner of his mouth lifts and he gives me a knowing smirk.
One that I’d like to brush off his face. With my lips.
No.
I roll my eyes and take a seat at the counter. There’s a wooden fruit bowl in the center, filled with apples, oranges, and bananas. They’re so perfect they look fake.
“I’m fine with an omelet if that’s what you planned on making.” My fingers skim the outside of the orange in front of me.
“You can have whatever you want,” he says referring to the bowl. “I can peel that orange for you.”
“Oh,” I say, pulling my hand back. “I-I can peel an orange.”
He nods, moving the paper towel closer to me. Liam begins to work on the omelets while there’s music playing from his phone and a candle burning off in the distance. It smells like apple cider.
I instantly feel comforted in his apartment. For a space with so few decorations and photos, he’s made it feel so homey.
“Can I have a slice?” He tips his head toward me, walking around his island so he’s now at my side.
I look up at him standing over me. Piercing blue green eyes, a five-o’clock shadow, a few pieces of hair that went rogue falling onto his forehead.
“My hands are eggy.” His mouth opens, and I take one of the pieces and bring it to his mouth. There’s no hesitation in his bite as he takes the whole piece into his mouth and smiles with closed lips as he does. And, honest to god, why is that one of the cutest fucking things he’s ever done?
“So…” I say on a sigh as I watch him walk back to the stove. “How are you feeling after the game? Pretty nice you own an ice bath.”
“My body’s beat up.” He winces as he lifts his shirt and I can see a bruise already forming on his side. “I hate that we lost the game. But we didn’t play at the level we’re capable of, you saw it. There’s a lot to work on.” His shoulders shrug up and down and he shakes his head as he plates the omelet. “But I know it’s early in the season. We’ll clean up the things we need to clean up and things will get better.”
He lifts his eyes to meet mine, placing the steaming hot breakfast right in front of me.
“This smells so good.” I lean in closer to the dish and inhale.
“Oh, and yes”—he raises the spatula in his hand and points to the sliding glass doors—“I do have an ice bath. Want to try it?”
I swallow hard as I look at him once he turns back to face the stove, finishing up his own omelet. I study how the shirt on his back hugs his muscles, how he’s stretching something at all times. His neck, a shoulder, his back, hips—he’s constantly moving his body. It feels like a tactic to keep me staring, and I hate to admit it, but it’s working.
Am I freaking the fuck out that Demi is in my kitchen, eating my omelet, and peeling my oranges? You bet I am.
