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CHAPTER 7

AMELIA

We’re standing in the kitchen right beside one another, facing the pantry. It’s time for lunch, and it’s also a great time for us to learn something about one another.

“If you had to pick your favorite guilty pleasure to eat from in here, what would it be?” I look up, asking Tristan as I watch his dark eyes survey the contents in front of us.

“This is interesting.” He runs his palm down his stubble-covered chin. “I kind of thought we’d sit around and quiz one another on questions.”

Turning to face him, I grab his shirt between my fingers, pulling him slightly toward me. He seems surprised, but for the life of me I can’t stop touching him today. Maybe it was sleeping beside him last night, maybe it’s the fact we’re pretty much alone today—I don’t know. But I feel more comfortable with him than I did even yesterday.

“Nothing’s better than physically seeing and knowing what the person you’re with likes. So again, I ask you. If you had to pick your favorite guilty pleasure item to eat from here, what would it be?”

Putting his arm around me, he turns us back toward the pantry. “The box of brownies,” he answers immediately, reaching in to grab them. They’re the Ghirardelli brand, double chocolate.

“That’s a lot of sugar.” I purse my lips as I gaze over at him. “Looking at you, you wouldn’t think you eat any sugar.”

“Don’t eat much.” He thumps the box against his thigh. “But when I do, I love chocolate.”

“Duly noted.” I tilt my head to the side. “See these are things the woman sharing your bed should know.”

“Give me a chance, Lia, and I’ll teach you.”

My eyes meet his and there’s that shock of electricity that continues to pass between us. I’m wondering how long we’ll be able to ignore it. When will it spark too bright, that it’ll turn into a fire? This slow burn will leave a trail of coals that at some point will ignite. The question is, how long will they simmer before they combust?

He clears his throat. When he speaks, his voice is all gravel, deeper than normal, and full of an arousal I’m feeling all too well. “And you, Lia? What’s your guilty pleasure?”

No one has ever called me by a nickname. For my entire life I’ve been known as Amelia. Not one person has ever shortened it, and to hear him shorten it after spending the last few days together? I’m not sure why, but it makes the pit of my stomach do funny things. Maybe I never meant enough to anyone else to give me a nickname, but the fact that he has? It makes me want to write our names on a notebook and draw a heart around it. I don’t bring attention to it, because I would hate it if he stopped .

“Pancakes with maple syrup,” I answer after looking through everything once.

“You’re talking to me about sugar?” He tilts his head to the side this time. “Those who live in glass houses…” He lets his words trail off.

I laugh loudly, smiling what I know is a bright smile up at him. “I had no idea you had a sense of humor, much less a dry sense of humor. You should share that more.”

“I’ve not been allowed to for a long time.” He rubs his hand over his cheek. “Before my mom died, there was a lot of laughter, there was a lot of humor, even if it was tongue-in-cheek or at my father’s expense. After she died”—he closes his eyes—“there wasn’t laughing, no jokes, nothing to smile about for a long time.”

What he’s just shared with me, breaks my heart. It’s obvious he was just a young kid trying to figure out how to live in a world where he’d lost the most important person in his world. I try to think about how it would go from one day having everything, being a carefree kid, knowing someone loved you, and then not knowing how to act. In the end, I’m not sure how to approach the subject, all I know is I want to put that smile back on his face.

“Wanna make pancakes?”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “Yeah, yeah, I think I do.”

“This is a mix, so we’re just supposed to add water,” I tell him after we’ve gotten everything situated on the counter next to the stove.

Well if you could call it a stove. I’m sure an executive chef could cook in here. Granite countertops, industrial range, with what looks to be two ovens. My mom would kill for this setup.

“Adding water I can do.” He flips over the package and reads the amount he’s supposed to get.

“If you like doing this though, we can get a recipe and make them from scratch?”

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

He’s almost shy in admitting it’s something he would like to do, and immediately that becomes my goal. For him not to be shy about the things he wants to do. For him to speak up and enjoy his life. Without his mom by his side, I think he’s forgotten how to do that. I can show him how, if he’ll let me, and I feel like by him sharing some of what he’s gone through with me, he’s allowed me in, just a tiny bit.

I turn on the burner, making sure the flame isn’t up too high as I warm the pan up. He brings the water over, putting it into the bowl, where the mixture sits. “Can I stir?” He’s almost bashful.

If anyone had told me a week ago this is where I’d be and this is what I’d be doing, I would have called them crazy, told them they had someone else’s life and it sure as the devil wasn’t mine. Yet, here I am, making pancakes with my new fiancé, the world’s ex-most-eligible bachelor.

“Go for it.” I hand him the spoon. “Just stir until it’s incorporated.”

He takes his job seriously and I have to wonder how long it’s been since he’s been given a task like this. He seems to enjoy it, and I wonder if this is something we’ll do together from now on. Cook in the kitchen and spend time getting to know one another .

I hope so, more than anything, I hope this is our new normal.

“This good?” he asks, his voice quiet, almost as if he’s completely unsure.

I look over into the bowl and see that he’s done a good job getting all the wet ingredients mixed in with the dry. “Perfect! Now just take a scoop and ladle some onto the pan.”

He does as I’ve asked him to do, watching intently as I hold the handle of the pan. “Have you ever watched anyone make pancakes before?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “They’ve never been a favorite of mine, but if they’re a favorite of yours I’ll be giving them a shot. I can already tell.”

Watching the batter, I notice the edges are starting to bubble as is the center. “We’re ready to flip.”

“Wait, I’ll get you a spatula.”

“Don’t need one.” I give him a wink as I flip it with a twist of my wrist and watch it land perfectly on the other side.

“Holy shit! How did you do that?”

“Lots of practice. Pancakes have been a favorite of mine for a long time,” I explain as I finish this one off, flipping it onto a plate. “Put some more in the pan.”

He does as asked, and I watch him, watching the batter. When I see that it’s the perfect consistency to flip, I step aside. “Do you want to give it a try, Tristan?”

“Yeah.” He’s almost like a child in his enthusiasm, and I love every minute of this.

I stand behind him, showing him the movement I use with my wrist to get it to flip, then back up so that he doesn’t elbow me in the face. “This is your moment, make sure you shine!”

He does what I’ve shown him, but he’s not quick enough and the gooey side of the unfinished pancake lands against his sweater. I try to hold in the giggle as my mouth opens wide, but I can’t stop it. The giggle comes out in full force.

“You think this is funny?” He turns to me, wearing a chest full of pancake mix.

“If you could see yourself.” I giggle even louder, throwing back my head and holding my stomach as I give into the laugh.

This is one of those laughs that takes over every emotion you’ve felt in the last week and just lets you release it all. Every bit of nervousness, arousal, stress, happiness. It’s all taken care of in this laugh, and when he starts to laugh with me? I realize this moment is as perfect as it can be.

“Try it again,” I tell him, wiping at the corners of my eyes, and giving him a new scoop to try it on, after we got rid of the ruined one.

And that’s how it goes for the next ten minutes. In the end, we only have three pancakes that are edible, and he has to take off his sweater. One thing I will never complain about, though, is Tristan in a skin-tight white undershirt. This will be my new favorite look for a while. He carries the plate to the table, and as we get there, I notice there’s only one fork.

“Share with me?” His voice is hopeful, offering a piece of him that perhaps he’s kept held back in the past few days.

“I’d love to.”

Having a seat beside him, I watch as he cuts off the first piece, dips it in the syrup, and then holds it up to my mouth. That bite of cold pancake is the best bite of anything I’ve ever taken, and I’ll remember it for the rest of my life.