As a kid, I loved cooking with my mama. She’d stand beside me, teaching me how to measure and mix, laughing softly whenever I sent flour billowing into the air by stirring too hard or missed the bowl completely. She was always patient, reminding me that mistakes were half the fun. One of the first symptoms she experienced was loss of dexterity in her left hand, which made cooking difficult. Over the years, she had to stop completely, and I soon lost any interest in it too. It’s a painful reminder of who she used to be and what’s been taken from us because of an incurable disease.
I enter the kitchen and find Walker at the stove with his back to me. My throat goes dry, and I’m unable to look away from the curve of his shoulders and the way his muscles flex with each movement.
“You did have a shirt on when you got here last night, right?” I tease.
He spins around when he hears my voice, his eyes twinkling. “Checking me outtwicebefore coffee? That hangover must be worse than I thought.”
“I’m not checking you out,” I insist as I move closer. “It’s bad manners to roam around someone’s house half-naked.” Okay, I may have shamelessly stared, but it’s hard not to when he looks like he stepped straight off the cover of a western romance novel.
“It’s also not very polite to throw up on someone when they’re trying to hold back your hair and you keep swatting at them for doing it wrong.” He laughs as he sprinkles cheese on the eggs he’s cooking before moving them off the hot burner.
My jaw drops in shock. “That’s so humiliating! Why would you bring that up now?”
It’s bad enough he saw me at my worst, but to be caught up in the middle of my drunken chaos is something else entirely. Thenagain, it’s probably a good thing that part of the night is still fuzzy, or I might die of mortification reliving it.
“You were ridiculously cute, thinking you held your liquor well, and I didn’t want to burst your bubble.”
Walker is an enigma. Most guys bolt after my first accidental disaster or sign of awkwardness. Yet he remains unfazed, no matter how clumsy I am or how many times I trip over my words.
I reach across him to snag a piece of cheese that hasn’t melted yet, popping it into my mouth. “How come I didn’t know you could cook?”
He shrugs, taking two plates from the cabinet next to the stove. “I like taking care of the people who are important to me, and making them food is one way I do that.”
My pulse spikes at the implication that I could be one of those people—and the alarming part is how much I want to be. Until last night, Walker was just Briar’s brother and one of my friends. Even though I’m confident nothing physical happened, something has shifted between us. I’m all warm and fuzzy watching him take care of me. I can’t stop staring.
“Want your coffee now too?” Walker asks.
“You made me coffee?” My voice comes out a little breathless.
He nods. “Everyone in Bluebell knows you can’t leave the house without your full caffeine quota.”
I’m stunned speechless as Walker crosses to the other side of the kitchen and retrieves a mug sitting in what looks like a hot water bath. He lifts it out, dries it with a towel, and hands it to me. “One oat milk latte with a dash of cinnamon—just the way you like it.”
I’m left weak at the knees knowing he remembers my coffee order down to the exact milk I prefer. Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised, considering he’s always showing up at the feed store with my favorite meals.
He motions to the table. “Take a seat, and I’ll bring over your breakfast.”
Still unable to find the words to answer, I do as he suggests.
My mouth waters when a minute later he sets a plate of avocado toast in front of me, complete with a drizzle of oil and a sprinkle of pepper flakes.
“This looks amazing,” I manage to get out. “Your mom would definitely approve of the presentation.”
Julie’s cooking is legendary. It was always a treat when Briar invited me over for dinner at her place. My mama was a good cook, but Julie‘s culinary skills are on another level altogether.
“She should be,” Walker says, chest puffed out with pride. “She spent countless hours drilling the basics into Heath and me, saying no son of hers would grow up without knowing his way around a kitchen.”
I push back the sadness that creeps in, a reminder that he’s lucky enough to still have his mom around in a way I’ll never have mine again. To distract myself, I cut a piece of toast, add some egg on top, and take a bite—the flavors exploding on my tongue.
“It’s so good,” I exclaim.
Walker smiles as he takes the seat beside me. “Glad you like it.”
I sip my coffee between bites, noting that it tastes far better than my usual attempts and even tops the one from Lasso & Latte. I’ve never had a man make me breakfast before, and as much as I wish we could enjoy the rest of our meal in peace, there’s something important we have to discuss before he leaves.
“We might have a problem,” I state reluctantly.
Walker leans back in his chair, resting a hand on his thigh. “And what would that be?”
