Page 49 of Make Me Dream of You

It’s after three by the time I fall asleep and, consequently, I sleep in late. It’s a little after noon by the time I get up and dressed and go out to the kitchen the next day.

Wood is nowhere to be seen, but Noah is in the kitchen with bowls strewn across the counter, the egg carton open, fridge door ajar, and is concentrating on a notecard in his hand so intently he doesn’t even notice me until I’m sitting directly in front of him at the counter.

He almost jumps when he sees me, dropping the recipe card.

“Sorry,” I say, trying not to laugh too much, then realizing I was supposed to be mad at him. Shoot.

“It’s okay.” He picks the card up from the floor. “I thought I would try and make you waffles.”

My stomach rumbles loudly right at that moment.

“I’ll take that as a yes?” he asks.

“Waffles sound great.”

“I have to warn you, I’ve never made them before. They won’t be as good as Wood’s.”

“I’m sure they’ll be great. Can I help?”

He smiles slowly, his chiseled features mirroring the skull tattooed on his throat. Haunting yet beautiful. “I’d love that.”

I come around to his side and pick up the recipe. “How about you do the dry ingredients and I’ll mix up the wet?”

“Okay.” He nods. He gets out the flour and measuring cups and spoons while I get out the milk.

“Sorry I was such an asshole last night,” he says, flour on his chin. I can’t help but smile.

“You were.”

His expression falls. I nudge him with my elbow and wink, and he smiles, too. As we work, he starts in with all these random facts about Monet and Manet, and I have no idea where this came from but he’s adorable trying to remember dates and the names of paintings while also leveling out a teaspoon of baking soda.

By the end, batter is in drips all around the waffle iron, spent eggshells litter the counter, and I’m sticky with syrup.

The waffles were not as good as Wood’s—I don’t think I beat the egg whites enough—but I don’t care. My stomach is full, and my cheeks hurt from smiling.

“Oh! I got something for you,” Noah says as he’s washing the dishes.

“You did? You didn’t have to do that. When did you even have time?”

“When you were sleeping this morning, silly.”

I swivel around in my seat looking for anything wrapped or new sitting around. “What did you get? Where is it?” Too eager. That was way too eager.

He chuckles. “I’ll show you after I finish with the dishes. If Wood comes home and his kitchen is a mess, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

I hop off the stool and go to his side. “You wash and I’ll dry?”

“Okay. I’ll pretend you’re offering to help from the goodness of your heart and not because you want your present sooner.”

“Obviously. I only ever have pure intentions.” I smile big as I dry the giant mixing bowl.

“It’s up in the loft,” Noah says after the dishes are done and put away. “Wood helped me set it up this morning.”

Set it up? I scurry to the steps leading up to the loft, mind racing.

“Close your eyes. No peeking. It’s a surprise,” Noah calls after me.

I close my eyes as his steps come light right up behind me. I clasp the railing, glancing down through my lashes as I take the stairs slowly.

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