By the time I woke up and hauled myself down to breakfast, all the regular visitors had disappeared and most of the dishes had been cleared away.
And by dishes I mean things like plates of smoked ham, scrambled eggs, biscuits and gravy. All that was left was a small dish of honeydew and muskmelon.
Yuck. I hated melon. Unless it was watermelon, and then I’d eat the whole thing. But those other two—the green and orange—you couldn’t pay me to eat them.
I picked through the melons until I found a chunk of pineapple hiding at the bottom.
“Good morning.”
My heart fluttered in my throat. My cheeks burned, and I cursed my body for the stupid way it reacted.
“Morning,” I said, keeping my focus on the table.
“Would you like a real meal?”
“You mean there’s more than leftover melon?”
“That depends on whether or not you want to look at me.”
Crap. Why did Roan have to push my buttons and make me do things like raise my eyes?
I slowly lifted my gaze to find the owner leaning on the doorjamb. He wore a waffle-patterned long-sleeved shirt, low-slung jeans and his hair was neatly combed.
“Morning,” he said again. This time with a definite twinkle in his eyes.
“Morning.” I cleared my throat. “So you’ve got more than melon?”
“In the kitchen.”
“Am I supposed to follow you or are you bringing it out?”
“I thought you might want to eat in there.”
His eyes held me too tightly. I felt like I was suffocating. My gaze darted away. There was suddenly a very intriguing spot behind him that I found incredibly important to stare at.
“And what could tempt me away from an empty table with sad-looking melon?” I said.
“Apple pancakes.”
My stomach growled. “And what makes you think I like apple pancakes?”
He shrugged. “Seems like a better option than scraps of melon.”
Roan had me there. I hitched one shoulder and said, “Okay. I’ll bite.”
“I hope you do more than bite.” His gaze snagged mine, and my heart did that stupid thundering thing. I did my best to ignore it and followed him into the kitchen.
Two plates with pancakes already stacked on them lay at the table. “Were you expecting someone else?” I mean, did the guy hear me come down the stairs and plate these up? How’d he do it so fast?
He pulled out my chair. “I heard you come down the stairs. Everyone else is gone.”
It irked me that he was acting like such a gentleman. What was he going to do next? Make his guitar appear out of thin air and croon a song?
Let’s hope not.
The pancakes smelled delicious. The scents of warm apples and maple trickled up my nose. I glanced out the window. The fall colors were just about at peak—brilliant oranges and fiery reds danced in the breeze.
“What makes you think I like apple?” I said. I just couldn’t let him think I was so easy to get into a breakfast chair, now could I?
