Page 76 of Traces Of You

He lifted an eyebrow and looked down at her. “I don’t think that’s the first you’ve had sex.”

She grinned, her brown hair damp and tucked behind her ears. She was makeup free like always and looking as fresh-faced as he remembered her.

“I’ve had sex,” she said. “I meant it was the first time I could finish during sex. I normally have to do it myself.”

Her face was bright red, but he was happy she felt she could open up with him.

“You needed some guidance I was happy to provide,” he said.

“Oh, get that smirk off your face.”

She pushed out of his arms, laughing.

“I might feel a little proud of myself.”

He had so much hope of a future for them, if they could get past the present.

He wasn’t naïve in the least and knew there was more to watch out for. To be worried about. To prepare for.

“You should feel proud. I know I am. And I’m starving. I’ve got eggs from the chickens here. Your father taught me how to get them and told me to take what I wanted. I grabbed some the other day. How about that or I’ve got bread and we can do French toast?”

“Whatever is easiest.”

“I enjoy cooking,” she said. “I’ll make French toast. Your mother still does most of the baking, but I’m hoping she gains enough confidence in me so that I can also do it and she can have a day off now and again.”

“She’s stubborn, but my father will work on her. We are all happy you’re giving her a hand. She’d let no one do it in the morning, working herself hard baking and waiting on people.”

“She’s like supermom to me,” Reenie said. “Nothing fazes her or slows her down, but I like helping out and waiting on the customers. There aren’t that many around to serve in the mornings, but there are plenty that want to sit and have a cup of coffee with a friend and a treat.”

“That’s why she can handle it. The days she’s serving lunch are when it’s busier and she’s always had help for that.”

“I know,” she said. “Next weekend Bobbi Jo can’t work, so I told Brooke that I’d do it if she wanted. She gave me a few days off during the week, which I hate, but I understand.”

“You’re doing more than you need to.”

“I like to stay busy. It keeps my mind clear of other things.”

She’d been cracking eggs in a bowl while they talked. Then she poured in some milk, added brown sugar like his mother did, and some cinnamon.

“Have you always made your French toast like that?”

“Like what?”

“With the brown sugar?” he asked.

“Yes. Why?”

“My mother does too, but few do. Or not that I’ve seen or had.”

“Your mother is the one who showed me how to make it,” she said.

“Really?” he asked. “Recently?”

“No,” she said, laughing. “When we were kids. I was here one day. You and I were working on a school project and she made itfor us. I’d never had French toast like that before and asked her how it was done.”

“I don’t remember that.” He thought he remembered all his time with her. Maybe it was more about feelings and not actions. They worked on school projects a lot together.

“I helped her clean up while you were finishing homework.”