I move to the kitchen, feeling nervous. We slept together and even that felt better than anything I experienced with someone else.
I prepare breakfast as he rounds the corner. Offering him an orange juice, I try not to stare at his chiseled torso, yet I count the eight-pack through his T-shirt. I could get used to waking up to that porn inducing visual.
He chuckles. “I see my kitchen still stands.”
I roll my eyes at him playfully. “Very funny, Ian.”
I might not be a good cook, but I can prepare an omelet. I think so anyway.
He rushes past me and flips the pan. The eggs are a bit burned.
He arches a brow. “You were saying?”
I place my hand on my chest in faux admiration. “You’re my hero. What would I do without you?”
“Order takeout,” he deadpans.
Giggling, I grab a towel and snap it across his chest, enjoying the light atmosphere. That ends when his phone rings. His mood shifts and mine sinks as well—in sync like that. I’d take away whatever bothers him if I could.
While I plate the omelet, I hear Amelie crying on the phone.
“I’m on my way. Give me a few.” Hanging up, he sighs. “I have to go.”
I peer at the untouched omelet, and he takes a few bites. “It tastes good.”
I try to imbue some cheer by pouting. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
A shadow of a smile crosses his lips. He kisses my forehead and says softly, “Thank you for everything.”
Reaching the door, he adds over his shoulder, “Stay as long as you like. The spare key is inside the bowl on the hall table.”
He leaves, and I take a few bites, spitting it right out. Who doesn’t know how to make an omelet? I am hopeless when it comes to cooking.
After I rinse the plates and make the bed, I pick the other set of keys from the counter by the entry, remembering I didn’t give himhis gift—a keychain with Champion engraved on it. I place it next to the bowl, hoping to put a smile on his face when he finds it.
On my way to the store, I call Kat, telling her everything.
The drive passes in a blur.
Parking, she waits for me with a cup of coffee and a muffin. Thank god for best friends.
“The poor guy, I’m so sorry for him,” she sighs as we walk inside.
Everyone looks at me expectantly and I say, “Go back to work, people.”
They return to their tasks, and I busy myself in the back, preparing the juicers and looking at the orders for today.
Throughout the day, my thoughts fly to Ian, and I check my phone a hundred times. There is no message from him, worrying me to no end.
Not knowing how to cheer him up, I send a pic of me holding his favorite shot, but he leaves my text unread. A pang of sadness spears my chest, leaving my heart battered. His pain kills me slowly.
I hear the gasps and ohs and awes, and I speed walk to the front of the store.
There he is in all his magnetic, magnificent glory. Ignoring the stares, I grab his hand, putting myself in front of him like a protective shield and bring him back to a more secluded area.
Sadness laces his voice. “I’d take that drink now.”
I open the fridge, eager to ease him, and hand him one.
