Hope he likes scrambled eggs because that’s about all I can salvage here. I root around for a pan, set it on the stove. Cracking five eggs into a bowl, I add the splash of milk and whisk. I dump the mix into the hot pan and a few minutes later, I have light and fluffy eggs.
Dinner prepared, I find the TV remote and turn the volume down to a more reasonable level. One that Mr. Monty won’t be able to hear without his hearing aids. I stack the mail and tackle the mountain of laundry, folding Bennett’s gym shorts into neat squares.
Ten minutes later, he comes out of his bedroom dressed in sweatpants and a fresh T-shirt. I try not to stare, but the black cotton stretches across his broad chest, the low-slung sweats hang off his hips like he dragged them on without much thought.
My brain stalls for a second.
I duck behind the island, suddenly very interested in the pan on the stove. Grabbing the eggs, I slide them onto a plate and busy myself with searching for a clean fork.
“Here.” I thrust the plate toward him, hoping he can’t see the blush burning across my cheeks. “Eggs. You didn’t have much to work with.”
He takes the plate from me, and our fingertips brush. A spark zips up my arm, quick and sharp, stealing my breath.
His gaze snaps to mine, dark and searching, the contact holding a beat longer than it should.
Static from the laundry.
Bennett’s grip tightens around the plate, knuckles going white. Like he felt it too.
I pretend not to notice and pull my hand back, turning to wipe down the counter that’s already perfectly clean.
“Thanks.” He carries the plate over to the sofa and flops down. “I’ve been busy training. Haven’t had much time to get to the store.”
“I get it. Priorities.”
“You gonna eat anything?” He lifts his eyes to mine, fork paused mid-air.
“I already ate.”
He shrugs, then picks up his fork and starts scooping food into his mouth. “Eggs are good, Sunshine.”
Despite myself, a tiny tug pulls at the corner of my mouth. “Thanks. I’m not much of a cook. I prefer baking.”
“Isn’t that, like, the same thing?”
I gape at him. “Definitely not.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Baking is a science. There’s no room for error.”
“So cooking’s easier?”
“Not really. But you don’t have to be so exact.”
“So you’re more of a playbook kind of girl.” His voice is low and gruff, a smirk dancing on his lips. I relax a touch, relieved at his teasing.
“Yeah, I am.” I shove a stray hair from my eye with my elbow, scrubbing the pan. “I’m sure that doesn’t surprise you any.”
“No. It tracks.”
Fair.
I’m not exactly known for my spontaneity. Besides, rules keep things from falling apart.
Usually.
Shutting the water off, I dry my hands on a dishtowel. Bennett polishes off the eggs and carries the plate to the dishwasher, sliding it in.
