Page 52 of Pucking my Enemy Boss

“Wait,why are youmaking breakfast?” I fold my arms, smirking. “Should I be concerned?”

He shoots me a grin, setting a stack of pancakes on the table. “I’m capable of more than just hockey and decorating trees, you know.”

“Really? Because I was beginning to think that was your whole thing.”

His smile doesn’t falter. “You’re hilarious.”

Grinning, I take a seat, watching him move with a surprising ease. It's almost like he does this all the time—except for the fact that I know he doesn’t. This is new. Ethan Carter does not wake up early, let alone cook. And yet, here we are.

He sets the plate down in front of me like it's no big deal. Pancakes, eggs, bacon—the whole nine yards. "Carb overload for you. Figured you’d appreciate it."

I’m not crying. You are.

“Thanks,” I say, flashing him a grin. “Didn’t peg you as a breakfast chef.” I mumble, still caught off guard by this whole scene. He’s never been a morning person, so seeing him up early—makingbreakfast, no less—feels like spotting Bigfoot.

As I pick up a fork, my eyes flick to the pancakes—perfectly golden, fluffy, the kind you see in food commercials. “These look ... suspiciously good. You didn’t, like, sneak out, buy these, and then make all that mess, did you?”

He rolls his eyes, pouring syrup over the stack. “I made them. From scratch.”

“Oh, so you’re a culinary genius now?”

“Genius, full stop.” He leans back against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. There’s a glint in his eyes that tells me he’s enjoying this way too much.

I take a bite, and the warmth of the pancakes melts in my mouth. “Okay, not bad,” I admit, pointing my fork at him. “Where did you learn to do this?”

He glances at the stack of pancakes like they hold some kind of memory. “David. He used to do everything around the house when we first started living together. I was useless in the kitchen. Could barely boil water without setting off the smoke alarm.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Used to?”

“Yeah.” Ethan pauses, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “One day, David cut his hand really bad—needed stitches. So, I had to take over the cooking. He gave me instructions from the couch, and well, it turned into a whole thing. He even made these little cookbooks for me.”

The air shifts. The mention of David is always heavy, like a shadow hanging over everything, but there’s something softer in Ethan’s voice today. Not the usual wall of steel.

“Sounds like he was a good teacher,” I say, my voice gentle, hoping he knows it’s okay to talk about him.

Ethan shrugs, but his eyes are distant now, like he’s watching the past play out in his mind. “He was. He had to be. I wasn’t exactly the easiest person to live with.”

“You? Difficult? Shocking.”

That earns me a smirk. “What about you? You’ve cooked twice and I haven’t even had the chance to enjoy it.”

I laugh, leaning back in my chair. “You’re lucky. You’d think with the confidence I jump into the kitchen I’d know my way around things, right? But no. I can’t cook to save my life.”

Ethan’s brow furrows. “But you?—”

“Tried to follow David’s recipe once and called my mom. Both my parents are chefs,” I explain, twirling my fork.

He raises an eyebrow, genuine surprise flickering in those blue eyes. “Your parents are chefs?”

“Yep.” I shove another piece of pancake into my mouth, hoping to drown the embarrassment. “World-famous chefs, multiple cookbooks, TV shows, the works. And their daughter can barely boil water.”

He chuckles—a low, warm sound that I couldmaybeget used to. “And here I thought you were a woman of many talents.”

“Oh, I’ve got talents,” I tease, leaning back in my chair. “Just none of them involve fire or sharp objects.”

He grins in anI agreekind of way. “Seeing what you can do, it’s obvious you just weren’t interested.”

“I failed miserably at my first trials, then I wanted to do something else. Something that had nothing to do with them.”

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