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4
EFFIE
Iwake with my stomach growling and my mouth watering.
For a blissful few minutes, I’m a teenager again on break from school and spending long, relaxing days with Grams.
I stretch my legs out and groan, happy to lose myself in the illusion that everything in my life is as it should be.
But all too soon, the fantasy I’m happy to lose myself in begins to fade and reality slips back in.
Although it’s painful to know that Grams isn’t the one baking up a storm in the kitchen, amusement rolls through me at the thought of who is.
I almost don’t believe it, but the scent of sugar and cinnamon is too much to deny. That isn’t a shop-bought scent. That’s real.
Curiosity has me throwing the covers back and climbing out of bed.
Finding one of Kieran’s old hoodies in one of my drawers, I drag it over my head and slip into the bathroom to freshen up.
It’s no surprise that he’s awake before me. Years of being up at sunrise to train has become a habit that he’s unable to break in the off-season.
I cringe as I come to stand in front of the mirror in the bathroom to wash my hands and brush my teeth. My eyes are red and puffy, showcasing both the effects of the alcohol and my emotional outburst last night.
Drinking was only going to end one way. There may have been times in the past when I’ve been a fun drunk, but now isn’t it. And I’m sure Kieran has the makeup smears on his shirt to prove it.
Splashing some cold water on my face in the hope of rectifying the situation, I keep my eyes downcast as I grab my toothbrush.
My stomach continues to rumble as the scent of cinnamon only increases through the house.It’s as if I haven’t eaten in a week, despite the incredible meal we shared last night.
By the time I’ve finished, my patience to see what he’s up to is at an all-time high.
Quiet music floats from the direction of the kitchen as I silently pad toward it and as I get close, I realize that Kieran is singing along.
A smile twitches at my lips as I try to predict what I’m about to walk into.
I discover not twenty seconds later that that was impossible.
I come to a stop and rest my shoulder against the doorframe as he pulls the oven open and slides out a tray full of cinnamon buns.
My stomach growls as I watch him turn and place the tray onto one of Gram’s counter protectors.
He stands and studies his creations for a few moments before reaching for a cooling rack and embarking on transferring his buns.
I stand there with a smirk on my face, feeling happier than I have in a long time.
He looks larger than life, standing in the middle of Grams’ modest kitchen. But then I guess that should be expected when he’s a six-foot giant. I’m used to Grams pottering around in here, and she’s even shorter than I am.
“Ow, fuck,” he complains when a bun burns his finger.
Unable to hold it in, I snigger, alerting him to my presence.
He spins around with wide eyes and his pointer finger in his mouth as he tries to soothe the burn.
“The cinnamon butter is hot,” he mumbles around the digit, making me laugh even harder. And it only gets worse when my eyes drop to his chest, and I take in the mess on his t-shirt.
“Oh my god,” I blurt.
“Baking is hard,” he complains after letting his hand fall to his side.