“Like just sit yourself down in a chair and I will feed you, that’s what,” he smirks, twisting around to wink at me.
His smile is a ray of sunshine. Amazing how that works. Everything seemed so serious just a minute ago. Now I am walking on clouds again.
The bedsheet is tucked securely under my arms, but I am not sure for how long. Carefully I hitch it over my hips a little bit as I sit at the counter, swallowing the gush of saliva that fills my mouth. The scent of the kitchen is overwhelming.
He moves to the side, then returns immediately with a mug of steaming coffee.
“Milk? Sugar?”
“Just black is fine,” I smile as I take it from him.
He pauses to smile back. I see his eyes skating over my shoulders as he drinks me in. He is still a little shy, a little guarded. Not like Cass, who is downright brash. Will holds back, I can tell. But once he lets go, he lets go all the way.
“How do you like your eggs?” he asks with a modest cringe. “Actually… can you take them scrambled? I know how to make them scrambled.”
“Scrambled would be great,” I smile back.
“Very little shell, I promise,” he adds as he turns back around.
The coffee is welcome in my body, reminding me how much I need to recharge. I’m definitely short some fluids, and I think my brain could use a reboot.
In a few moments, Will slides a steaming plate of fluffy scrambled eggs in front of me, crisscrossed by three glistening strips of dark fried bacon. Extra crispy, just the way I like it.
“Haven’t quite figured out how to manage hash browns,” he explains shyly.
“Oh my God, this is amazing,” I sigh as I pick up my fork. “Seriously. I can’t remember the last time anybody cooked for me that wasn’t working in a restaurant.”
“What? Are you kidding me?”
As I stuff myself with the eggs, about as daintily as a raccoon mother, I try to think back. Mona has only mastered the art of the drive-through. My dad doesn’t date and doesn’t cook. I suppose the last time anybody with any kitchen skills was in my life was back in Seattle, back when I was in high school.
“Well, my Aunt Sadie used to make this gumbo? That was pretty good. Sausage, shrimp, rice, tomatoes… Actually all kinds of vegetables. She had a garden too.”
“That does sound good,” he says as he slides into a chair next to me with his own plate of breakfast. “Nobody since then?”
“Not since we moved here,” I answer, trying not to talk with my mouth full. “I can make the basics. My dad can live on jerky and canned peas if he needs to. My mother passed away when I was little.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s okay,” I say stupidly. But what else do you say?
Briefly I feel guilty that I just started eating without waiting for him. What kind of manners is that? But he doesn’t seem to mind.
“I guess my aunt’s gumbo is the most memorable meal from being a kid. I should email her or something and let her know. I’m not sure I was very nice to her, honestly. My dad would kind of dump me at her house when he went on trips, and I guess I was mad at him and probably took it out on her.”
Will nods, his expression serious and open. Suddenly I feel a little silly.
“Wow… listen to me!” I chuckle. “I’m just babbling about my whole life! Jeez. Ignore me.”
He shrugs. “No, it’s interesting. I like hearing about your life.”
This makes me even more nervous. “Seriously? How could that be interesting?”
Shaking his head, he stares at his plate for a second. “Honestly? I’m not really sure. Everything you say is… I don’t know. Interesting, like I said. I can’t explain it.”
I think about what he said for a minute. Then I want him to say more. I don’t know why; he could talk about anything. I just really like the sound of his voice. It’s deep and rich, like plucked strings on a standup bass. It oozes masculinity and confidence.
I suppose that is just as insane as him wanting to hear boring stories about stews my aunt cooked. How am I supposed to know what kind of attitude his voice oozes? What a silly thing to think.