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“They might. You never know with your cooking.”
“Cute.” I bump her hip with mine. “Real cute.”
She wrinkles her nose, placing the pancake onto the stack. “I think I left it too long.”
“It’s perfect.” And somehow, it is. This lopsided, slightly charred pancake made by Naomi’s inexperienced hands in my kitchen at 11 am.
It’s the most perfect thing I’ve seen in a long time.
The doorbell rings, and Naomi freezes mid-flip. Who the fuck dares to interrupt this? Our first pancake moment. Which I’m definitely not way too excited about or anything.
“I’ll get it.” I squeeze her shoulder, already missing her warmth. “Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone.”
Though honestly? She could burn down my whole kitchen, and I’d probably just stand there grinning like an idiot because she was cooking in it.
I open the door to find Elijah looking every bit the CEO in his tailored suit despite the early hour and weekend.
Great. The fun police has arrived.
“Little brother.” He arches an eyebrow, taking in my bare chest and joggers. “Interesting outfit. You got company?”
“It’s Saturday.” I lean against the doorframe, blocking his view inside. “What do you want?”
“Can’t I check on my baby brother?” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Especially after hearing some… interesting news.”
“Spit it out.”
“Jeff called.” Elijah straightens his already perfect cufflinks. “Says you’re finally selling that money pit you call a restaurant.”
“And?”
“And I’m wondering what changed.” He studies my face. “Last time I brought it up, you nearly took my head off.”
“Maybe I realized Dad was right.” The words taste like ash. “Happy?”
“Are you?”
“I’m working for the company, aren’t I?” I cross my arms. “Isn’t that what everyone wanted?”
The smell of burning pancakes wafts from the kitchen. Shit.
Elijah’s nostrils flare. “Naomi?”
“None of your business.”
“So she is here.” He tries to peer around me, but I move faster.
“Like I said, not your business.” My jaw clenches. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Brandon?” Naomi’s voice drifts from the kitchen, followed by the clatter of a pan. “I think another one decided to burn.”
Elijah’s lips curl into a smirk. “Domestic bliss.”
My lips twitch despite everything. She’s in my kitchen, wearing my shirt, burning my pancakes. It’s domestic as hell, and something in my chest warms even if she’s currently committing crimes against breakfast food.
I grip the door, ready to slam it in his face and get back to my beautiful disaster-prone sous chef.
“You want to stay for pancakes?” I ask. “Fair warning. They’re either burnt or folded in half. Sometimes both. It’s very avant-garde.”