Page 29 of Interference

“No, because my cat knocked me down the stairs.”

The long pause on the other end of the line would’ve been comical had I not been sore and miserable.

I’d finally said, “Simon saw the whole thing. He can vouch for me.”

There was a long-suffering sigh on the other end, followed by, “All right. Will you at least be here to study film with the team?”

I had, and my teammates had given me no end of shit for nearly winding up on injured reserve because of my cats. Though Simon and I had hosted Thanksgiving a couple of weeks later, and some of the teasing had eased up.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Beaus had exclaimed. “You said you got knocked down by a kittycat! Not by a fluffy horse!”

I chuckled at the memory as I followed the boys down. Some of the guys joked that we should put boots on the cats and see if they could pull us around the ice. They probably could, but I doubted they’d like—

Is that bacon?

I halted at the bottom of the stairs. Was I hallucinating? Or did I actually smell bacon?

I inhaled deeply. If I was hallucinating, I was doing it vividly, because oh my God, that smelled amazing.

Then something clattered, and Wyatt’s laughter came down the hall. “That’s not a toy, you weirdo. It’s an egg.”

Wait, was Wyatt… Was he cooking breakfast?

I continued into the kitchen, and sure enough, he was at one of the two islands with a pan on the stove. Lily sat a foot or so away, and Moose was perched on the counter. Wyatt nudged the bacon with a spatula, and with his other hand, he tried to redirect Bear, who had apparently become fascinated with the eggs still sitting the carton.

Wyatt met my gaze and smiled. “Oh, hey. Breakfast?”

“Uh. Yeah. Yeah, sure.” I scooped Bear off the counter and put him on my hip. “That smells amazing.”

Another quick smile, though it faltered. “You don’t mind me, uh…” He gestured at everything.

“Not at all. Especially not if you’re making bacon.”

“Well, it’s your lucky day.” He pointed with the spatula at the microwave. “There’s a whole plate in there, and I’m making more.”

I chuckled as I headed for the microwave. “Ah, so you’ve learned the art of hiding food from the cats.”

“It’s a brilliant idea,” he said with a laugh. “I didn’t know cats were this, um… assertive?”

“Most aren’t. Maine Coons are…” I waved a hand. “They’re something else.”

“You don’t say.”

I pulled the plate out of the microwave and was treated to a perfectly cooked strip of bacon. Apparently he liked his bacon the same way I did, too—in that perfect sweet spot between crispy and not. I gestured with the half-finished strip. “This is great, by the way.”

“You’re the one who bought the good stuff.” He gave me a brief smile. “I just cooked it.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t burn it, so I’m happy.”

“I noticed yesterday you liked it like this, so…”

“Mmhmm, I do. Glad you made a ton of it, too.”

He’d also made a ton of eggs, so he must’ve also taken note of how much I ate for breakfast. Less than five minutes after I’d come into the kitchen, I had a plate with a heaping portion of scrambled eggs and several strips of perfectly cooked bacon.

Wyatt served himself a smaller but still generous portion, and we sat at the other island on the barstools to eat. I wasn’t sure what he’d done differently than I usually did, but the eggs tasted amazing. Like they were lightly seasoned in a way that even our team chefs didn’t match. I recognized the flavor, too, though I was either too tired to name it or just couldn’t connect the taste to something I’d put on eggs. It was vaguely sweet and seemed to be in the ballpark of cinnamon, but it definitely wasn’t cinnamon.

“For the record,” I said between bites, “you’re not obligated to lift a finger while you and Lily are staying here, but I will absolutely not say no to your cooking if you feel like it.”

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