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A pleased smile spreads across his face, and his eyes meet mine briefly. It’s too intense, and I force myself to glance away.
“First, we need to mix the dry ingredients.” Brody grabs a measuring cup from the cabinet and a spoon from the drawer, placing them in front of me.
“Great. Let’s do it,” I say as he gives me the measurements for each item.
Brody leans his back against the counter and watches me, but he’s super patient.
“You’re a natural,” he offers. “These are gonna be the best damn pancakes we’ve ever eaten.”
“I find it impressive you have the recipe memorized,” I say, but then I remember him mentioning that his mother loved breakfast.
“When I was a kid, there was an entire summer where I wanted pancakes for every meal,” he admits.
“Everymeal?” I ask as he pours the oil, vanilla, and milk into the bowl.
He hands me an egg, giving me a chance to crack it.
“Oh, yeah. Loved them,” he says.
He watches me as I smack it on the flat counter, then press my thumbs in, opening the shell. The egg plops out with no shell. Brody holds up his hand, and I give him a high five.
“Look at you. Gonna be a chef by the time we leave here.”
Laughter rolls out of me. “Okay, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I can crack an egg and skip a rock. Changing the world.”
He chuckles. “Both great skills to have.”
Once everything is in the bowl, he hands me a mixing spoon. “Now, there is a trick to this. You cannot overmix the batter. You stop when everything is incorporated. Got it?”
I nod, doing exactly what he instructed. When I stop, he glances in the bowl with a nod, then turns on the skillet. While it heats, we steal glances at one another.
“How big do you like them?” He waggles his brows.
I smirk. “Minimum six inches. But I think size matters.”
Brody clears his throat.
“Oh my God, are you blushing?” I ask.
“No. Pfft,” he says. “Are you kidding?”
“You are!” I tease him, reaching over and poking his side, making him squirm away. “Brody Calloway! Are you ticklish? Damn. It’s soooo over for you.”
I chase him around the kitchen.
He holds up a spatula and points it at me. “Harp! We have pancakes to make. The skillet is hot!”
I scrunch my nose. “You’ve only been saved because I’m starving. We might have to revisit this soon though.”
“Harper Alexander! Don’t start no shit, won’t be no shit,” he says, moving toward the stove.
I stand beside him and my eyes trail over the tattoos on his forearm. I notice the Calloway Diamonds logo and a beautiful clock.
“This tattoo—it’s an homage to your family.”
“Yes. Easton drew it,” he shares as he pours batter in palm-sized circles in the iron skillet.
The kitchen immediately smells like cake, and my mouth waters in anticipation.