Page 10 of Misbooked for Love

The massage therapists eventually step out, leaving us alone in the room again. I roll onto my side, pulling the blanket with me and glancing over at Clara, who is doing the same.

“Well,” she says, lifting her chin with a mock formality. “It’s been… tolerable.”

“Glad I could live up to the bare minimum,” I shoot back, smirking.

She stands, gathering her robe and slipping it back on, cinching the belt tightly. “For what it’s worth,” she says, glancing at me from beneath her lashes, “I would have said no if you actually proposed. I mean, what kind of monster proposes at a spa of all places?”

I pause, the words hanging between us as warmth spreads through my body and a loud, long burst of laughter erupts in my chest. She’s smiling and her blue eyes are shining, but she’s quick to tamp her smile down. I clear my throat, fighting to keep my expression neutral. “I’ll take that as a compliment, I guess?”

“Don’t,” she says with a shrug, but her lips quirk up at the edges. “It was just an observation.”

She turns to leave, pausing only briefly to flash me one last look—one that, for the first time, doesn’t carry her usual edge of irritation.

7

CLARA

The kitchen is warm,bathed in the soft morning light that filters through the back windows, making everything feel golden and quiet. I’m still not used to waking up in this villa, half expecting the space to feel cold and unfamiliar, but it’s starting to grow on me, even with Tom around.Especially with Tom around, I realize, as I catch sight of him by the coffee machine, already making a fresh cup.

“Morning,” he says, glancing up. His brown eyes are set intently on me, studying my face witha lotof attention to detail. And there’s no gruffness in his voice today, just an easy familiarity that slowly seeped into this shared villa and settled between us. He handsme a mug without me even asking, and it’s such a simple thing, but it catches me off guard.

“Morning,” I reply, wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic. “Thanks.”

He nods, and we stand there for a moment, just sipping our coffee. It’s almost…comfortable, this quiet, shared routine we’ve stumbled into. I don’t think I’ve been this comfortable since Santiago, and we all know how that ended, so this needs to be shut down, immediately. As soon as I’m done with my coffee, I’m walking away and staying away for the whole day.

I pour some milk into my mug, watching the swirl of colors meld together, and for a second, I forget the awkwardness that hung between us just a few days ago.

“I’m going to make some eggs,” Tom says, breaking the silence. He’s already cracking them into a pan, moving around the kitchen with an ease I didn’t expect. “Want some?”

I tilt my head to the side, focusing on what his hands are doing. “That’s such an American thing, having eggs at breakfast. I don’t think I’ve ever had them for breakfast before.”

He blinks, a little surprised and confused. “Then what do you eat for breakfast?”

“Toast? I don’t know, something that is not eggs. Pastries. Fruit?”

”Toast with what? Just toast?”

“Jam?” I reply, but it comes out as a question almost. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” he says, turning back to the eggs in question and mixing them with a wooden spoon. “I’m not looking at you.”

Tom’s confusion is almost endearing, and I can’t help but laugh at the way he looks at me, like I’ve just told him I don’t eat breakfast at all. There’s something about his earnestness that catches me off guard, a softness that has been showing up more and more as the days go by.

“Jam and toast,” I repeat, still amused. “It’s not that weird.”

Tom glances at me, his brow furrowed in a way that is half skeptical, half curious. “It’s a little weird. Bland, maybe?” he says, shaking his head as he continues to stir the eggs. “I mean, you’re missing out on the best part of breakfast. Eggs are?—”

“Are what?” I interrupt, leaning against the counter and watching him with a grin. “A delicacy? A must-have? The peak of American cuisine?”

He smirks, shrugging one shoulder as he adds a pinch of salt to the pan. “Pretty much. Eggs are, like, the backbone of breakfast. Protein, Clara. It’s what gets you through the day.”

I laugh, genuinely amused by his seriousness. “Okay, but explain to me how jam on toast doesn’t do the same. It’s fruit. And bread. Carbs and… whatever jam is made of. It’s fine.”

Tom turns off the stove and slides the scrambled eggs onto two plates, handing me one. “Here. Consider this your first American breakfast experience.” He’s teasing, I know it, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes—maybe pride or just the simple pleasure of sharing something familiar with someone else.

I take the plate, the eggs steaming and looking fluffier than I expected. “Fine,” I say, taking a bite, and I have to admit, they’re pretty good. Simple, comforting in a way I didn’t think they’d be. “Not bad. I’ll give that to you.”

He grins, leaning against the island next to me, his shoulder brushing mine in a way that feels accidental and deliberate all at once. “See? Stick with me, and I’ll have you eating pancakes and bacon by the end of the week.”

---