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I can’t help but slide over the tattoos that peek out from the top of his shirt and go up his neck.
He notices me staring and lifts a brow. “This is a very important step. Keep your focus.” He winks.
I shake my head as he continues, “Pancakes need patience and the right amount of heat. Watch for them to bubble.”
I tilt my head thoughtfully, biting back a grin. “So, you’re saying you like to take things slow?”
Damn, I’m brave today.
His gaze flickers to mine, heat flashing briefly in his eyes before he reins it in. A smile spreads across his lips. “Good things come to those who wait.”
A soft blush rises up my neck, and I zero in on the bubbling batter. “That’s why I’m letting you handle the timing. I wouldn’t want to mess things up.”
He can also read between the lines.
Carefully, he slides the spatula under a pancake and flips it. The side that’s facing up is a golden brown.
He places his hand on the small of my back. “Grab some plates?”
“Sure,” I say, placing them on the counter.
After another minute, he starts piling pancakes, then repeats the process until we each have a fat stack.
Brody removes the butter from the fridge, and I grab the syrup. We move to the table, and I watch as he puts little pads of butter between each layer. I follow his lead.
“All right, syrup queen, show me your skills.”
Laughing, I drizzle syrup generously over both stacks, aware of his gorgeous eyes on me. Feeling bold, I swipe a fingertip through the sweet syrup pooling on my plate and slowly bring it to my lips, tasting it. His eyes darken slightly, watching me carefully.
“You’re trouble,” he says, amusement and something deeper coloring his voice.
I grin, my heart fluttering under his gaze. “But you like trouble, don’t you?”
“Mmm. Fucking love it.” Brody’s eyes soften.
For a moment, we hold each other’s gaze. Butterflies swarm inside me as his words sink in.
“Then I guess you’re in luck,” I whisper teasingly as we sit across from one another at the small table for two. “Because I’m the best kind.”
“No one is denying that.”
We each cut a sliver, and I lift my fork, the syrup dripping onto my plate. At the same time, we pop them into our mouths, and I moan. Not that I could help it. They’re incredible. My eyes widen, and he swallows hard.
“Sorry, they’re orgasmic,” I admit. “Basically, these are the best pancakes I’ve had in my entire life. Now I understand why you wanted them for every meal.”
He smiles, almost like he’s remembering an old memory.
Breakfast passes in easy conversation, the gentle hum of our voices filling the cozy kitchen. We linger at the table, plates empty, mugs half filled with coffee. I lean back in my chair, feeling more relaxed and carefree than I have in years, as the warm morning sunlight washes over us.
Glancing down, I remember my lack of a phone and clothes—everything I left behind at Micah’s. A small frown tugs at my lips as I consider my reality. I look up slowly, meeting Brody’s concerned gaze across the table.
“You okay?” he asks, reading me perfectly.
“Yeah,” I sigh, fiddling with my fork. “I left my phone, clothes, and favorite weekend bag at Micah’s. I feel a little … lost and out of touch with the outside world.”
He reaches across the table, his hand covering mine.
“Things are replaceable. You aren’t,” he says, thumb brushing reassuringly over my knuckles. “We’ll need to go into town to get more groceries soon, and we can get whatever else you need.”