fridge.
“You know, like those guys who hide out in bunkers and squirrel away canned food and guns in case of a zombie apocalypse. Except you’re going to fight the zombies with pudding,” he explained as I marched him to the table in the breakfast nook and sat him firmly in a chair.
“Yes, that’s exactly my plan. However did you guess?” I replied deadpan, batting my eyelashes at him. “You want bacon in your omelet?”
“Of course,” he answered, and I started whisking eggs and crumbling up bacon I had left over from yesterday. I began sautéing the onions in a bit of butter, then turned to ask him why he had nothing better to do on a beautiful Sunday morning than paint my barn, when I noticed he’d disappeared.
“Lucas?” I asked, and he popped his head out from the pantry.
“Holy hell, there’s another case of pudding in here! And seven, no, eight boxes of chocolate Pop-Tarts!”
“Okay, that’s it. Get out of my pantry; you’re a pest!” I shouted, marching him once more to the table. “Don’t make fun of my consolation chocolate.”
“Your what?” he asked, confusion all over his gorgeous face. Oh, man, I was in trouble.
“My consolation chocolate. I went through a breakup. I’m entitled. Besides, you should have seen the diet my mother had me on to fit into my wedding dress. Ugh.” I cracked eggs angrily into a bowl and whisked with a vengeance. “I am owed that chocolate.”
“I believe you,” he replied, watching me pour the eggs into the onion mixture.
“I’d ask you to pour the orange juice, but I’m afraid I’d have to hear about the chocolate milk,” I said, looking at him over the burners.
“Can I have some of it?”
“My chocolate milk?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure.”
“Then you won’t hear a word about it,” he answered promptly, heading back to the fridge. He got out both, and I nodded him toward the cupboard where the glasses were kept. A few minutes later we were sitting at the table with full plates and glasses in front of us. We grinned at each other across the tops of our glasses and dug in.
“This is really good,” he told me as demolished half the omelet in two forkfuls.
“Thanks.”
I sat contentedly for a moment, listing to the scrape and clink of his fork as he polished off the other half. In just a few short weeks I’d gotten used to the quiet, but the silence of one is very different than the silence of two. It was nice to have another scrape and clink in the kitchen.
“So what’s with the house?” he asked suddenly and, surprised, I choked on my orange juice. “You okay?” He thumped me on the back.
“Sorry, wrong pipe. What did you mean?”
“This crazy pad, man—these ring-a-ding-ding digs. I feel like I should be saying things like chickie baby.”
“Ah, yes. Well, it’s not my taste, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Are you kidding? This place is great!” he said with suchenthusiasm that I found myself smiling again. I sure did smile a lot around this guy.
“Thanks, it’s my dad’s. It’s been in the family for years, but we hardly ever use it. Hence, the very out-of-date decor.”
“And now it’s the home of a pit bull rescue. Very cool.”
“Yeah. Not at all what I was expecting when I came up here; I just needed some space. And how lucky for me that I’ve got the land to do this here.”
“Is this what you did in San Diego? Like, for a living?” he asked.
I took the opportunity to examine my plate. “Not exactly.”
“What kind of work did you do?”
“I’ve never had a paying job before. I was good at one thing, and that was winning crowns. Then I volunteered. Then I was engaged. And I wasn’t going to work once I was married. So this is kind of a big step for me,” I snapped, throwing my fork down. Where had that come from, and why was my chin wobbling?
Ah, fudge.
“Sorry, it’s a bit of a touchy subject for me, I guess.” I sniffed, dabbing at the corners of my eyes with a
“You know, like those guys who hide out in bunkers and squirrel away canned food and guns in case of a zombie apocalypse. Except you’re going to fight the zombies with pudding,” he explained as I marched him to the table in the breakfast nook and sat him firmly in a chair.
“Yes, that’s exactly my plan. However did you guess?” I replied deadpan, batting my eyelashes at him. “You want bacon in your omelet?”
“Of course,” he answered, and I started whisking eggs and crumbling up bacon I had left over from yesterday. I began sautéing the onions in a bit of butter, then turned to ask him why he had nothing better to do on a beautiful Sunday morning than paint my barn, when I noticed he’d disappeared.
“Lucas?” I asked, and he popped his head out from the pantry.
“Holy hell, there’s another case of pudding in here! And seven, no, eight boxes of chocolate Pop-Tarts!”
“Okay, that’s it. Get out of my pantry; you’re a pest!” I shouted, marching him once more to the table. “Don’t make fun of my consolation chocolate.”
“Your what?” he asked, confusion all over his gorgeous face. Oh, man, I was in trouble.
“My consolation chocolate. I went through a breakup. I’m entitled. Besides, you should have seen the diet my mother had me on to fit into my wedding dress. Ugh.” I cracked eggs angrily into a bowl and whisked with a vengeance. “I am owed that chocolate.”
“I believe you,” he replied, watching me pour the eggs into the onion mixture.
“I’d ask you to pour the orange juice, but I’m afraid I’d have to hear about the chocolate milk,” I said, looking at him over the burners.
“Can I have some of it?”
“My chocolate milk?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure.”
“Then you won’t hear a word about it,” he answered promptly, heading back to the fridge. He got out both, and I nodded him toward the cupboard where the glasses were kept. A few minutes later we were sitting at the table with full plates and glasses in front of us. We grinned at each other across the tops of our glasses and dug in.
“This is really good,” he told me as demolished half the omelet in two forkfuls.
“Thanks.”
I sat contentedly for a moment, listing to the scrape and clink of his fork as he polished off the other half. In just a few short weeks I’d gotten used to the quiet, but the silence of one is very different than the silence of two. It was nice to have another scrape and clink in the kitchen.
“So what’s with the house?” he asked suddenly and, surprised, I choked on my orange juice. “You okay?” He thumped me on the back.
“Sorry, wrong pipe. What did you mean?”
“This crazy pad, man—these ring-a-ding-ding digs. I feel like I should be saying things like chickie baby.”
“Ah, yes. Well, it’s not my taste, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Are you kidding? This place is great!” he said with suchenthusiasm that I found myself smiling again. I sure did smile a lot around this guy.
“Thanks, it’s my dad’s. It’s been in the family for years, but we hardly ever use it. Hence, the very out-of-date decor.”
“And now it’s the home of a pit bull rescue. Very cool.”
“Yeah. Not at all what I was expecting when I came up here; I just needed some space. And how lucky for me that I’ve got the land to do this here.”
“Is this what you did in San Diego? Like, for a living?” he asked.
I took the opportunity to examine my plate. “Not exactly.”
“What kind of work did you do?”
“I’ve never had a paying job before. I was good at one thing, and that was winning crowns. Then I volunteered. Then I was engaged. And I wasn’t going to work once I was married. So this is kind of a big step for me,” I snapped, throwing my fork down. Where had that come from, and why was my chin wobbling?
Ah, fudge.
“Sorry, it’s a bit of a touchy subject for me, I guess.” I sniffed, dabbing at the corners of my eyes with a
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