Lark didn’t really understand why he couldn’t just stay in the master bedroom. The house felt cold and hollow without him there, and the burner clicked a couple of times before finally lighting.
Satisfied that she’d managed to use her mother’s complicated stove, she turned back to the island, where she’d put the dozen eggs and can of spam. She blew out her breath and picked up the carton of eggs.
After setting those next to the stove, she added a bit of butter to the pan and opened the skinny cabinet between the stove and fridge to get down the salt and pepper. Lark wasn’t the greatest chef in the world, but she’d existed on eggs as her main source of protein while at college, and she could prepare them in a variety of ways.
She realized then, that she should’ve started with the spam, as eggs weren’t good cold, and she should probably wait entirely until Cash showed up.
Lark sighed as she flipped off the burner, extinguishing the flame immediately. She planted one palm against the counter next to the eggs and exhaled again. “What am I doing?”
“Are you cooking?”
She jerked away from the stove as if it had spoken to her, spinning toward the sound of Cash’s voice. He stood in jeans and a black leather jacket at the corner of the kitchen, and Lark definitely took in the white plastic grocery sacks in his hands.
“Yes,” she said, blinking at him. “Kind of.”
Cash grinned at her and entered the kitchen, moving to the patch of countertop on the end above the dishwasher. He put his groceries there, glanced into the sink, and turned toward. “I thought it was implied that I was coming to make breakfast.”
“Was it?” She tilted her head, some of her bad mood evaporating at the mere sight of him. “You didn’t even tell me what time you’d be here, and you don’t exactly get up early.”
He stepped toward her. “I guessIthought it was implied.” He glanced at both sides of the kitchen where she stood, clearly seeing the can of spam, and then focused solely on her. “Mm, Merry Christmas, Songbird.”
Cash had such an easy way about him, and he could make every action and word feel natural. He took her into his arms effortlessly, drew in a deep breath from the top of her head, and ran his hands up her back to her hair.
“You’re delicious when you’ve not gotten ready yet.” He spoke in a whisper, and the words he said, combined with how he said them, made warmth slip across her skin and down into her core.
He pushed his hand through her hair. “I love your hair when it’s wild like this.” He leaned down and took another deep breath of it. “It shows me who you really are.”
“It’s a little out of control this morning,” she said. “I need to get it cut.”
“Mm, I don’t think so.” He touched his lips to her cheek, immediately dropping his mouth to hers. “I like it just like this.”
He kissed her then, and it could’ve been the holiday magic, or the scent of his cologne, or the fact that he’d shown up before nine o’clock, but Lark’s mind swam as she lost herself to him.
After several long moments, he pulled back. “I brought stuff for breakfast.”
“I was going to make you a cheesy, melty spam-and-egg sandwich.”
“That also sounds amazing,” he said. “But I feel like I heard you say you wanted something baked and delicious.”
“I never said those exact words.”
“I hear what you sayandwhat you don’t say, Songbird.” He swept a kiss along her collar and then threaded his fingers through hers. “Come on. I’ve missed this kitchen, and I don’t want you to do anything today.”
Lark stumbled after him as he led her out of the kitchen and toward the living room. “You’ve missed thekitchen?”
Cash chuckled as Lark dropped onto the couch with an irritated scoff. He crouched in front of her, and because she had two operating eyes with twenty-twenty vision, she swore she found love in his gaze.
“I missed you too, Lark-my-love.”
With those perfect words simmering through her blood vessels, he straightened and went back into the kitchen. Lark watched him move around the space with power, efficiency, and grace. He put her pan in the sink and instead, set the oven to preheat.
“What are you making?” she asked.
“My momma always made quiche on Christmas morning,” he said, his voice almost achieving the nonchalance Lark was sure he’d attempted to pull off.
She got to her feet and walked over to the bar, sliding onto a stool there so she could be closer to him. “Your momma, huh?”
His gaze flitted past hers. “Yep.”
