It’s not a gift, I tell myself. It’s just helping a friend. Friends do that sort of thing, right?
I pull out the butter, eggs and coconut milk, shut the fridge, and quietly grab the flour, sugar, and salt from the counter. I open and shut a few cabinets until I locate baking soda and vegetable oil, careful not to wake him up. I grab a bowl from the clean side of the dishrack over his sink. Thankfully, the pots and pans are displayed hanging over the center island, so it doesn’t take much for me to grab what I need and get to work.
At least I can do one part of my routine, and I can thank Cam in the process for dinner, and for letting me crash on his couch, and then I can leave and head back to my hotel. I don’t have to meet the realtor until nine-thirty, which is still tight, but I’ll make it.
Cooking in someone else’s kitchen is always weird, but I find as I move about in Cam’s kitchen, it doesn’t feel all that weird.
In fact, it feels like home, in a strange way.
I’m just flipping the pancakes when I hear an incoherent mumble and I turn to look at a sleepy-eyed Cam, his hair a mess and sticking up. The urge to reach out and mess with it, run my fingers through it, is prevalent, but I resist. I don’t want the pancakes to burn.
“What is this?” he grumbles, running his hand through his hair. I try not to look at the way his forearm flexes as he does so, but I fail.
He’s still in the same clothes he wore last night, like me, but he looksgood.I look like I most definitely spent the night on my best friend’s couch, but he looks like a damn magazine spread at six-thirty in the fucking morning.
I clear my throat, turning my attention to the pancakes.
“Breakfast,” I say with a shrug. “Hope you still like pancakes.”
Cam’s gaze settles on me as he leans against the counter.
“I haven’t had pancakes in years, actually.” He crosses his arms, his gaze flashing to the stove.
“I don’t think I’ve ever cooked anything in this kitchen before. Nice to see the stove works.”
God, is that a travesty. This kitchen is beautiful. Spacious, perfect for cooking, baking, entertaining…
“How have you survived?” I ask, but my tone isn’t judgmental. It’s humorous, friendly even.
Cam grabs two individual bottles of orange juice from the fridge.
I turn the burner to low and grab a plate from the island and tray it up with four pancakes and stick two sliced strawberries on the side and fan them out. A trick I learned from Mack. He always garnishes his famous strawberry margaritas with sliced strawberries.
I slide the plate in front of Cam, watching his expression soften. I drop the last bit of batter onto the skillet pan, shifting my weight as I turn the burner back up.
He doesn’t answer me, but he doesn’t need to, not really. I can’t help but smile as I flip my pancakes, listening to the sound of his moans and groans.
“Fuck, these are really good,” he says and I cast him a smirk as I turn off the burner, toss the pancakes on my plate and dive in.
“It’s the least I could do,” I say as I stab the fluffy cake with a fork. We eat in companionable silence, and I can’t help but enjoy it.
I’m used to eating alone, so this… it’s nice.
Not awkward.
When I’m done, I move to collect his plate, but he shoots me a glare, but I grab his plate anyway. He doesn’t say a word, just stares at me as I collect the dishes, wash them, and set them in the strainer over the sink.
When I look at my watch—the one I wear every day— I notice it’s nearing eight a.m. Shit!
“I gotta go, but, uh—thanks… for everything,” I say as I head over to the couch and grab my shoes. I can feel him staring at me—again.
I slip my shoes on, brush out the wrinkles in my shirt, and head for the door. Cam stands beside it, his hands in his pockets. His gaze flashes to my mouth, then my eyes.
For a minute I’m frozen, wondering if this is it.
If this is where he kisses me, like in some romantic movie.
But life isn’t a movie, and my life is certainly not aromanticmovie. Unless it were titledRomance Is Dead: The Austen Brewer Story.Which sounds more like a documentary made after my mangled body is found at the bottom of a cliff.
