Page 73 of Angel

I smile and beat back my emotions. “Yeah, they’re my favorite.”

“I know.”

His ears go pink and ngh, I want to kiss them so bad. I want to nibble on them to see if they’re as sweet as they look. Christ, I’m fucked. So very fucked.

Angel chops up the veggies and beats the eggs. He looks like he knows what he’s doing in a kitchen, and I watch with my chin resting in my hand. My stomach is filled with butterflies trying to escape, and my heart is beating erratically. Yearning stirs deep in my soul, yearning for this: simple mornings with someone who knows how I like my coffee, who makes omelets because he knows they’re my favorite, whose mere presence makes me feel all gooey inside.

I want to wake up every day with Angel’s scent lingering on the pillow next to mine. I want to watch his ears go pink when I tease him. I want to melt into the strong comfort of his embrace.

Angel plates up two perfectly folded omelets and piles on a mountain of hash browns. The finished product looks like something I’d order from one of the brunch places the boys and I go to. It looks amazing and smells divine.

He sets a plate down in front of me at the small table tucked into the corner of the kitchen, then takes the seat across from me.

“This is…” I shake my head, overwhelmed by him, by my feelings, by everything.

“It’s nothing.” Angel shrugs.

I reach across the table to grasp his hand. “It’s not nothing.”

He flips his hand over so we’re touching palm to palm, then gazes into my eyes like he’s trying to memorize how they look. I pour everything I feel, every ounce of affection and adoration into my expression, hoping he’ll see them and recognize them for what they are. Love. Unexplainable. Unexpected. But so real it hurts.

“We should eat before it gets cold,” Angel says, and I reluctantly let go of his hand.

The omelet tastes even better than it smells, an orgasm of flavors exploding on my tongue. I don’t usually eat right after waking up, but I gobble this up like I haven’t eaten in days.

“Is it okay?” Angel asks.

“Teddy bear, this might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

His ears flush pink, and his cheeks scrunch into a smile. God, why does he make it so hard to not love him?

“Do you cook a lot?” I ask, before scooping up another mouthful of omelet.

Angel nods. “I’ve been cooking with Mama since before I can remember. We do big family dinners every Sunday. It was just the two of us for a long time, but then my sister and nephew moved back in with Mama last year.”

The mention of Sunday dinners makes my heart twinge. “My family does Sunday dinners too. I don’t go, though.”

Angel shoots me a concerned look, but he doesn’t ask why. It’s so obvious, he doesn’t have to. Why torture myself with hours of awkward eating every week? They stopped bugging me to go not long after I moved out, and I’ve never bothered inviting myself.

“How is it? Having your sister and nephew around, I mean?” I remember Angel’s sister. She’s older, I think. Pretty, popular, and smart, too.

“It’s okay,” he says with a shrug. “She disappeared with her boyfriend for a while. But he left her after she had Jonah.”

“Jerk.”

Angel’s lips twist into a sad half-smile. “Yeah, he is.”

“Do you like having them around now?”

Angel blinks like he doesn’t understand the question. “Um, I guess I do?”

Under the table, I nudge his leg with my foot. “You don’t sound so sure.”

He squirms a little. “I dunno. I’ve never thought about it. They’re family, so…” He shrugs, like that’s all the answer that’s needed.

I get it, even if I don’t agree. Family is everything in the old neighborhood. You do anything for family. Bend over backward, deny yourself, sacrifice. It doesn’t matter if they’re assholes or abusive or don’t deserve it. Loyalty is paramount.

Which is bullshit, in my humble opinion. But then, no one from the old neighborhood has ever asked for it. Whatever.

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