Page 24 of Comforting the Grump

The clatter of pans and the sizzle of something delicious dragged me out of my self-imposed exile in Ennio’s guest bathroom once I’d gotten dressed. The scent of fresh coffee mingled with the buttery aroma of scrambled eggs. Thank god for Ennio.

I leaned against the doorframe of the kitchen, watching him. He was a blur of motion in his vibrant apron, flipping an omelet with the finesse of a circus performer. His blond hair caught the morning light streaming through the window, making him look like some kind of domestic angel, albeit one who wore mascara better than anyone I’d ever known.

I cleared my throat. “Morning.”

“Morning, Marnin!” he chirped without turning around, his voice rising above the cheerful pop of bacon in the pan. “Coffee’s ready if you need a lifeline.”

“Sweeter words have never been spoken.”

I ambled over to the kitchen high table, pulling out a stool. The kitchen was alive with the sounds of breakfast magic: the whisk kissing a bowl in rhythmic beats, the comforting scrape of toast being buttered, and the gentle chink of china as Ennio laid out plates. “You’re baking?”

“Preparing some dough for bread. I always bake my own.”

“How industrious of you.”

“Sit, eat,” Ennio instructed, sliding a plate piled high with fluffy eggs, crisp bacon, and toasted sourdough toward me. He poured me a cup of coffee, black just how I liked it, and joined me at the table with his own less mountainous serving.

“Thanks,” I said, still trying to reconcile this nurturing side of Ennio with the flamboyant clubber I’d come to know. It was disarming, watching him care so effortlessly. I took a tentative sip of the coffee. It was rich and dark, with a hint of bitterness that kickstarted my synapses back into gear.

“I figured you could use a solid foundation after last night.”

“And here I was hoping you’d be polite enough to pretend that never happened.”

“No such luck, I’m afraid.”

I sighed. “Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

“How’s your memory?”

“Unfortunately, I remember every detail.” The weight in my chest hadn’t lifted, and there was a vulnerability in sharing a morning like this, mundane yet intimate, that I wasn’t used to.

Ennio was quiet, and I looked up, meeting his earnest blue gaze. There was an understanding there, a silent reassurance that needed no words. It made something twist uncomfortably inside me—a mix of gratitude and an unfamiliar longing for connection. I shook it off and focused on the meal, letting the routine of eating ground me to the moment.

“Good?” Ennio asked, watching me closely as I took my first bite.

“It’s freaking amazing.” The flavors burst alive on my tongue. “Michelin-worthy.”

He snorted. “I’m a chef at an inn, Marnin, not a haute-cuisine restaurant.”

“Would you want that?”

He shook his head. “I’m not good enough for that level, and I don’t have that ambition either. That requires a dedication I’m not willing to invest. Those people have no personal life. I get two days off a week off, like most people. That’s impossible at that level. “

“Their loss is our gain. I need to eat at The Lodge more often.”

He sighed. “Enjoy it while it lasts. They’re selling.”

I reeled back. “They’re selling? For real?”

The owners of The Lodge were well-known to me. Once upon a time, I would’ve said they were Essex’s parents. He’d been a high school friend of mine who’d died in action in Afghanistan. But now that I’d become friends with York, Essex’s younger brother and, in my humble opinion, the better man of the two, Essex was no longer first in my mind when I thought of The Lodge.

Ennio nodded. “Yeah. We’ve had several interested parties visit.”

“What will happen to your job?”

He clicked his tongue. “Always straight to the core, hmm? I appreciate your directness, you know that? With you, you never have to wonder where you stand.”

“That’s a compliment I’ve not heard often.”

---