He nipped playfully at my collarbone. “Your fault for being so irresistible.”
“I could say the same about you.” I pressed a kiss to his temple. “How about I make us some breakfast while you shower?”
“You’re going to cook for me?” He pulled back to look at me, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement. “Should I be worried?”
“Hey, I’ll have you know I’m a halfway decent cook.” It was true, though my culinary skills had been honed over centuries rather than years. “It’s not gonna be as perfect as your food, but you won’t throw up, and I won’t poison us.”
“Talk about a low bar…”
I slapped his butt. “Go shower. I got this.”
TWENTY-ONE
CHARLES
The hot water felt incredible against my skin, washing away the pleasant ache in my muscles and the lingering scent of our lovemaking. The first was welcome, the second left me somewhat bereft. Still, I couldn’t stop smiling as I shampooed my hair, replaying every moment of the night before and this morning’s wake-up call that had left me breathless and grinning like a teenager.
The sex had been amazing. Spectacular. The best I’d ever had. And moreover, it had been the same for him. I might not always be able to read Eamon very well, but no man could act that well during sex. He’d loved it as much as I had.
The snow had stopped falling sometime during the night, and brilliant morning sunlight streamed through the cabin’s small windows, making everything look clean and new. Through the bathroom’s frosted glass, I could see the world outside had transformed into a winter wonderland—pristine white drifts covering everything in sight, icicles hanging like crystals from the eaves.
From the kitchen came the sound of Eamon humming,his rich voice carrying one of those haunting Irish melodies. The memory of his voice, raw with emotion as he shared that piece of his soul, made my chest tight with affection. I could hear him moving around with surprising efficiency, the sizzle of something in a pan, the clink of dishes being arranged.
This was what happiness felt like, I realized. This warm, golden contentment that seemed to fill every cell in my body. I’d had good relationships before—or thought I had—but nothing had ever felt like this. Nothing had ever felt so right, so perfectly natural.
I loved him.
It made no sense at all. It had been less than a week since we’d met, and half of what I knew about Eamon didn’t add up. After Justin, I should be far more cautious, far more reluctant to give my heart away. But standing there in the steamy bathroom, listening to him hum while he made breakfast for us, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
I took my time in the shower, luxuriating in the hot water and the knowledge that there was someone in the next room who cared enough to cook for me. Someone who’d held me all night like I was something precious. Someone who looked at me like I was worth protecting, worth cherishing.
I had to laugh when I stood in front of the bathroom mirror. My lips were still somewhat swollen, I had whisker burn on my neck and chest, and I was pretty sure the mark on my shoulder was a hickey. God, I looked thoroughly debauched.
I also looked happier than I had in a long, long time.
When I finally emerged, dressed in jogging pants and a hoodie, the scents from the kitchen had intensifiedinto something that actually smelled professional. I found Eamon at the stove, flipping perfectly browned, flat pancakes.
“Pancakes?” I asked, sliding my arms around his waist from behind and pressing a kiss to his shoulder blade.
He leaned back against me, and I could feel his smile even though I couldn’t see it. “Mmm. Dutch pancakes. They don’t need baking powder, so I could make them with what we had. A simple mix of flour, milk, eggs, and some salt. Plus butter to grease the pan.”
I looked over his shoulder at the golden pancakes and inhaled appreciatively. “They look and smell amazing.”
“They are. They’re not sweet like American ones, so the Dutch often eat them with savory toppings. Bacon, cheese, you name it. They’re considered a full meal.”
“Bacon…” My mouth watered. “You’ll have to make those for me sometime.”
His answer came only after a long pause—long enough that I worried for a moment I’d somehow said something wrong. “I’d love that.”
Something in his tone made me pull back to look at his profile, but his expression was carefully neutral as he focused on the pancakes. Another one of those moments where it felt like he was holding something back, like there were words he wanted to say but couldn’t.
We ate breakfast at the small table by the window, the morning light making Eamon’s dark hair gleam and highlighting the sharp angles of his face. Since we didn’t have syrup, we ate the pancakes with simple sugar, which was actually delicious. They were thin and much lighter than American ones, closer to French crêpes.
“Seriously, where did you learn to make these?” I asked around a bite of a perfect pancake.
“I dated a Dutch guy for a while, and he taught me. Jan—which is a classic Dutch name, by the way—could suck cock like it was nobody’s business, and he made the most amazing food.”
I couldn’t resist. “So he and I had a lot in common, is what you’re saying.”
