I glance at the clock. It’s seven fifteen. It’s not like I slept the entire day away and she had time to be in here baking.
She shrugs. “I just threw them together real quick. It’s not a big deal. I love having a fresh biscuit to make an egg sandwich in the morning.”
“Well, they look amazing, and they smell even better.”
Lucy tries to hide her pleased grin, but two dimples are visible as she gets busy scraping biscuits off the pan. “Why don’t you try one?” she asks.
I should tell her no. I don’t want her to feel like she has to share her food with me. I don’t want her to feel that pressure, especially since I’m the one who owns a house. But, damn, those smell good.
“Well, maybe just one.”
My answer seems to please her, I think.
It’s in the name of roommate bonding.Right?
It seems as though she’s trying to fight a smile. She grabs a plate and slides a hot biscuit onto it, then adds the warm eggs from the pan.
“Try that and see if you like it. It’s especially good with chipotle mayonnaise on there.”
She slides a jar toward me, and I take the plate from her outstretched hand.
“Be careful, it’s hot,” she reminds me.
“It’ll be fine.” I blow on it for one second and then take a big bite.
She was right. It’s hot. Burn-my-tongue-and-leave-it-fuzzy hot.
But, man, is it heavenly. The first thing I taste is butter and a hint of buttermilk, and it’s melt-in-my-mouth goodness.
“This is so good,” I say around a mouthful of biscuit. I’m not able to enunciate clearly, but at least she gets the gist of it. Because it really is a delicious biscuit. I split it open and slide the egg onto it, then add some of the chipotle mayonnaise and eat it in about three bites.
Any leftover annoyance at her stealing my mug is completely gone. She made fresh biscuits. How can I stay mad at her for accidentally choosing my mug?
“There’s plenty here, so have more. I just don’t know how to make a half batch of something. I always end up with lots,” she adds with a little laugh as she points to the pan full of biscuits.
I turn around to grab a glass from beside the sink, and that’s when I see it.
A sink full of dishes.
A mountain, really. How on earth does she use that many dishes to make biscuits? In the short time she’s been here, I’ve hardly noticed her. An occasional sweatshirt draped over a chair, but no messes like the Mount Everest that’s sitting in the sink where it’s visible to anyone who walks in.
I try to keep my eyes from falling out of my head, and I hope she doesn’t see my horrified look. She must not know that you don’t have to use every single dish in the kitchen to make something.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I was hoping I’d have time to get those done before you got back from your run. I promise I’ll be out of the way before you need back in here. Don’t worry.”
She looks like she’s embarrassed, and now I feel guilty for looking so shocked. I’ve never made buttermilk biscuits before, so who am I to say how many dishes it takes?
“No problem. Doesn’t bother me,” I say as my eye twitches every time I turn in the direction of the sink.
I grab a glass and fill it with some water, snatch two more biscuits, and take my plate to sit on the other side of the bar.
Lucy scarfs down her biscuit and eggs the same time I do. It’s too good to eat slowly. I watch as she licks her lips, then turns around to stare at the dishes. I stand up slowly, stretching my leg, hoping that will relieve the tension in my knee, and make my way to the coffeepot at the same time Lucy moves to the sink.
I have to turn sideways to keep from brushing against her.
“Oops, sorry,” she mutters.
I start to pour myself another cup of coffee, then realize that she’s doing the dishes from the meal that she just shared with me. I set down my mug with a loud clink and go to stand next to her at the sink. “Here, let me do this.”
