“Sit down, Golding,” I say, grabbing the eggs from the fridge.
A small huff of a laugh. “Make me, Sorcha.”
I turn around and put the eggs next to the mixing bowl.
I smile.
He sits on a stool, watching me grab an egg and crack it.
“Scrambled eggs okay?”
He nods. “Yeah. I’m at your mercy. Whatever you want, I’ll eat.”
I smile and focus on the eggs. I whisk them and add a splash of milk.
He’s leaning forward with his chin on the back of one wrist, watching me, with the soft early-morning version of his handsome face.
He’s just looking at me.
“What?” I ask shyly.
“Nothing.”
“Blue.”
“I’m just looking at you, Melly.”
I shiver and turn red. All the way down my neck. I turn back to the stove because if I look at him for one more half-second, I am going to drop the bowl.
I pour the eggs into the pan. The pan hisses. I stir. The coffee is ready, so I step over and press the button. On another pan, I have a few morning sausages going.
When I’m done cooking, I plate the eggs and sausages. Then I grab the cut-up fruit and put some on our plates. I pour the coffee in a mug and set the plate and mug in front of him.
He looks at the plate. He looks at me. He looks at the plate again.
“All this for me?” he asks, grabbing a fork. “You’re going to spoil me, Sorcha.”
“I thought Rowan cooks for the house,” I say, remembering Gianna talking about it.
He nods. “He does, but we pay him.”
I slide my plate over and sit next to him. He looks down at the hoodie I’m wearing.
He leans over and bumps my shoulder with his. “Thank you,” he whispers, looking down at me. It feels intimate coming out of his mouth.
I nod, bumping him back. “Eat.”
He picks up his fork and takes a bite. His eyes meet mine for a half second, and my cheeks feel so hot that I’m sure that they’re on fire. Honestly, I can’t believe he slept in my bed last night, and he’s eating breakfast with me. And we’re not anything but friends.
I die in my own kitchen under his gaze, very privately, and I do not let any of the dying show on my face. I drink my coffee to hide my nerves.
“Melly,” he says. “This is so good.”
“It’s eggs.”
“They are good eggs. I appreciate it.”
I smile into the mug.
