I snort, bringing my wrist to my nose to catch my unkempt and certainly not lady-like laughter. “I just said that to irk you. He has the pants, though; that part is true.”
He faces the fire, and my laughter falls away as the orange and red flames throw highlights and shadows against his profile, making him look so goddamn gorgeous. Like a painting of a warrior or something.
“Pants are meant to cover the tops of your shoes. Can’t change my mind.”
“Alright, grandpa,” I tease.
He looks at me again, glowering. “Quit callin’ me grandpa. I’m only five years older than you.”
“Yeah, yeah, but think of it like this. When you were fifteen and driving with your permit, I was ten with braces watching shows about colorful ponies.” I nod my head. “See, makes you seem old when I put it that way, right?”
He rolls his eyes and faces the fire again. A second later, the kettle whistles in the kitchen. It’s so different being with a man like Atticus. A man who asks and expects nothing of me. He jumps up and makes the coffee, peering around the corner once to tell me he’s going to wait for it to steep.
My ex was always asking me to do shit. I don’t know if it’s because I’m the proud owner of a vagina and ovaries, and he just felt like the owner of such, chores and household duties belonged solely to me. But never once did he make me coffee or dinner or even give me his hoodie to wear when I was cold.
He asked me to make his coffee. He told me to bring him his laptop from the other room. Once when we took a team-sponsored harbor cruise, and I was chilly on the deck, he laughed and said I should’ve brought a coat like he told me to.
Atticus returns a moment later with a warm cup of coffee. I thank him, and he grunts.
We drink our first cup in silence, both of us kind of lost in the beautiful dancing flames in front of us. I think about nothing as I stare into the fire. Literally, let my mind free of the worry and the agony and the cringe and pain and everything I’ve been feeling for so long. I let it go, sip my coffee and watch the beauty in front of me.
I don’t notice right away when Atticus brings the carafe into the space and refills our mugs. And I don’t notice when he gets up and begins making breakfast, either. When my stomach rumbles at the smell of bacon and scrambled eggs, I snap out of my tranquil haze and make my way into the kitchen.
Spread across the counter is the most beautiful sight. Eggs, bacon, sliced strawberries, toast with butter spread over the top, two glasses of orange juice, a few slices of avocado and tomato, and another carafe full of coffee.
“Atticus,” is all I can say because the spread is quite possibly the best and most beautiful breakfast I’ve ever seen. Seriously. The few times I can recall my Mom actually preparing breakfast for me was a bowl of steel-cut oats with a handful of berries dropped into it. And like a cringe-worthy idiot, because apparently, that’s what I am around this man, my eyes get fuzzy on me. I use his sleeves to wipe my eyes, then look over at him where his hip is leaned against the stove, his big arms stacked over his chest.
“Breakfast ain’t a big deal,” he says, butthe way he says it. It’s the softest I’ve heard his gruff voice yet. It’s almost like he can feel my emotion over food and doesn’t want to embarrass me but also can’t bring himself to give me a hug, either. I get it. We’re not that kind of friends-of-friends.
“It looks really good,” I reply, lifting one of the two plates he stacked on the table. “Like, really good. I’m actually pretty hungry, too.”
He doesn’t watch me load my plate–thank god. And I don’t feel at all self-conscious about the heap of food I bring back to the table. Three slices of bacon, two heaping spoonfuls of eggs, toast and fruit, juice, and more coffee.
When he takes a seat across from me, our knees bump, and he grunts a little before moving his legs to give me space.
“I don’t normally eat breakfast,” I say, feeling guilty that I could’ve ended that sentence a word short. “Just coffee.”
He grunts as he takes a huge bite of toast piled high with eggs, tomato and avocado. We eat in silence, but it’s not awkward. It’s more like we’re both starving and thoroughly enjoying the delicious breakfast. After I’m done, I watch Atticus reload his plate. Back at the table, I can’t help myself—I watch him eat. Study the flex of his jaw and the way his throat strains as he swallows a large bite. I love the sound of him glugging down the small cup of juice at the end, too.
“Good juice,” I say, my mouth a little dry from the show I’ve been watching.
He nods behind him, and my eyes follow the lead, finding two oranges cut open and squeezed dry. “Fresh,” he says.
“You make your own orange juice?” I ask with surprise because I’ve never met a man who cooks much less makes fresh ground coffee and fresh squeezed orange juice in the morning. “I’m impressed.”
He grunts again, grabbing our plates and taking them to the sink. He starts washing the dishes right away, and when I offer to do it for him since he cooked, he simply grunts out “no.”
“Squeezing a fruit into a cup shouldn’t impress you,” he adds after a few quiet moments.
“You’re probably right,” I agree as I slide down in the chair, taking hits of his scent from the sweatshirt when he’s not looking.
“Why’s the bar so low?” he asks once he turns off the sink and places the last clean cup upside down on a dishcloth spread over the counter.
“Huh?”
“Fresh juice impresses you. Why is your bar so low?” The way he searches my eyes as he asks makes my skin prickle with heat.
“I moved from the city, Atticus. Men in the city are just… different. Career based. Less domestic.”