Page 42 of Falling For Us Again

He steps back, glancing in admiration at how his shirt hits the top of my thighs, and how the hastily buttoned job left most of my full breasts exposed.

“On second thought, I wouldn’t change this view for anything.” He says seductively.

I blush. “Impossible to sleep through the smell of bacon.”

He chuckles. “I know how much you love bacon... And I figured you might be hungry after last night.”

Heat creeps up my face as memories of last night flash by.

He hands me a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

“Thank you.”

I take a sip, savoring the tangy sweetness on my tongue. I smile when I look up.

“Breakfast is almost ready.”

The simplicity of his words makes my chest tighten. I wish we could always be like his.

“I’ll set the table.”

I find myself staring at his hands moving with practiced ease. I’m curious to know why he’s no longer working as a chef. Lola had mentioned it during one of our conversations, and I was surprised.

He’d always loved cooking, and being a top chef was his dream. Why would he leave it behind?

The breakfast is hearty with fluffy blueberry pancakes, the most incredible buttery scrambled eggs I’ve ever seen, thick smoked bacon, and coffee.

I wonder how long he has been awake to make all of this. It’s such a sweet gesture.

“This looks so good.” My stomach rumbles in response to the spread. “I can’t wait to dig in.”

“I hope you like it.”

We begin to eat, and that is all I focus on. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until now. I find myself moaning in appreciation as I dig in. I’ve missed his cooking.

I glance up to reach for a glass of juice, and our gaze meet. Dylan looks like he’s holding himself back from bursting into laughter, his eyes twinkle with humor.

“What?” I ask with a mouthful of eggs.

“You look like you’re about to have an orgasm. I know that look very well,” he teased.

I cough in embarrassment my face turning crimson. “Well, the food is really good. You still got it.”

He smiles. “Thank you.”

“Lola mentioned that you left your chef position in the city to settle down here,” I say without looking at him. “Why did you quit?”

He doesn’t respond.

I raise my head to see him staring intently at his plate like it holds the answer. Perhaps it’s a touchier subject than I thought.

The silence stretches between us, and after a few minutes, he shrugs. “It was no longer fun.”

I stare at him. “Your mother couldn’t have been happy with that decision.”

His fork freezes halfway to his mouth. I see the tension ripple through his body, subtle but unmistakable. His gaze snaps up to meet mine, and for a second, I wish I hadn’t mentioned her.

“She has nothing to do with it,” he says, his voice flat, devoid of the warmth from earlier.

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