“Is that a hint to shut up about it?”
“No. It’s sweet. You’re sweet.”
“I’ve been called a lot of things, but ‘sweet’ is not one of them. I prefer stud.”
He laughs. “You’re not a horse.”
“No, but I’m hung like one.”
He laughs harder, clutching his stomach with one hand and his shoulder with the other. “Don’t make me laugh.”
“Did I say something funny?” I ask in the most innocent voice I can muster. “I was telling the truth.”
He rolls his eyes, shakes his head, and takes a few deep breaths.
“Are you disagreeing with me?” What am I doing? Give him space. Give him time. I shouldn’t be making lewd jokes about my dick.
“No, I’m not.” He shifts on the stool and stares at the breakfast bar.
I need to dial it down. Focus on cooking, not inconsequential chit-chat. I glance out the window. “Looks like it’s going to be a nice day.” The sky is bright blue, and there aren't many clouds.
“We’re talking about the weather, now?”
“We’re British, aren’t we? All we do is talk about the weather and complain about queuing.”
“But we’re so good at it.”
“Complaining?’
“Queuing.”
We burst out laughing.
I point at him. “Now who’s cracking jokes?”
“Me. Ow. I shouldn’t have. It wasn’t even a good joke. Maybe I should ask you for another massage after breakfast.” He bites his lip and looks away.
I’d give him one if he asked.
“I’m sorry. That was a mixed signal.”
“It wasn’t. It’s fine. You’re in pain.”
“It wasn’t fine.”
“Flynn—”
He hunches his shoulders, closing in on himself. “I’m sorry.”
“Food’s ready."
I plate everything up and push one across to him. I stay on the opposite side of the breakfast bar, standing to eat. It’s not that I don’t want to sit with him, but the situation is delicate, and I don’t want to make it worse.
He slices some sausage, bacon, and egg and eats them together. “I think you’re understating your cooking skills.”
“I told you, tossing things in a frying pan isn’t cooking.”
“Yes, it is.”
