Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Liam is by the stove, spatula in hand, hair still a little rumpled from the hours we spent making love and then, miraculously, sleeping. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants, low enough that I can see both the beautiful cut of his lower back and the pale suggestion of a tan line just above the waistband. The muscles of his arms flex and twist as he flips bacon, and every so often he reaches for the salt with fingers that, twelve hours ago, were inside my mouth.
He glances over his shoulder. The look is soft, not the usual bludgeon of dark blue intensity. “Coffee?” he asks.
I nod, stretching my arms over my head, letting the shirt gap enough to show one breast, then the other. He notices—of course he does—but doesn’t comment, just returns to flipping bacon like I’m not trying to destroy his concentration on purpose.
The kitchen is immaculate, every surface some shade of black or stainless, but there’s evidence of real life: a bottle of sriracha with the cap missing, a row of mismatched mugs drying by the sink, a battered lunchbox that looks like it could have belonged to a Civil War reenactor. I wonder how much of it is him, and how much is just the set dressing of a man who’s spent too long alone.
He pours coffee into a mug and brings it over. The mug says, in blocky white letters, WORLD’S OKAYEST DAD. He puts it in front of me with a half-smile.
“I didn’t peg you for the dad joke type,” I say.
He shrugs. “Found it in the break room last year. Kind of liked the energy.”
I wrap my hands around the mug, letting the heat bleed into my palms. “You could do worse,” I say, and it sounds like a compliment.
He goes back to the stove, and for a minute the only sound is the violent hiss of bacon and the burble of the coffee machine refilling itself. I take a sip and immediately burn my tongue, but try not to show it.
Liam glances at me, then grins—actually grins—and says, “Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who puts ice in their coffee.”
“Only if I want to taste my own tongue for a week,” I say, and he laughs, a deep, rough sound that makes me want to climb across the counter and ruin him all over again.
I watch him cook. He’s methodical, but not fussy. Every movement is efficient, practiced, like he’s spent years optimizing the act of breakfast. The way he pours eggs into a pan, the way he pinches the spatula in the web between thumb and forefinger, the way he shifts his weight from one foot to the other with unconscious grace. It’s a little obscene, how good he looks in loose sweatpants and nothing else.
I clear my throat, testing my voice. “Are you always this domestic in the morning, or is this a special occasion?”
He gives me that look, the one that could peel paint off a wall. “I wanted to make sure you ate something.”
He starts to plate the food—eggs, bacon, sourdough toast from a bakery I’m pretty sure has a waitlist. He’s got a little glass of homemade strawberry jam, the color so red it’s almost cartoonish.
I can’t help it. “You’re kind of a kitchen slut, aren’t you?”
He raises an eyebrow, then wipes his hands on a towel. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s not,” I say, letting my eyes linger on the line of his hips. “I just didn’t expect a full-service breakfast.”
He sets the plate in front of me, then leans in, bracing his arms on either side of the counter so that his face is close to mine.
“I’m full service in every department,” he says, low enough that I feel it more than hear it.
I decide right then that I’m never going to win a single game with this man, but it’s going to be fun trying.
“So do you always cook bare-chested?” I tease. “Or is this only for me.”
He thinks for a moment, then, as if remembering something, opens a drawer and rummages. He pulls out a green apron, frilly and kitschy, with PICKLE LOVER emblazoned in neon letters.
He shakes it out, then ties it around his waist. “Satisfied?” he asks.
I nearly snort my coffee. “That’s incredible,” I say, “You look like a Chippendale with a side hustle at a county fair.”
He glances down at himself. “I’m regretting the purchase.”
“No, no, it’s perfect,” I say, and mean it. The apron only emphasizes his size, the ridiculous definition of his arms, the way the sweatpants barely contain him. I imagine a world where he wears nothing else, just the apron and the look of a man who could break every bone in my body and then make me breakfast in the aftermath.