Page 98 of Never Kiss and Tell

Her shoulders slump.

“Well, I tried,” she murmurs, looking at the pancakes as if they had burnt themselves. “I told you; I can’t cook.” She hands me a coffee mug and I’m surprised when it tastes just like I always take it. One cream, one sugar. Just enough to get rid of some of the bite.

Something about the defeat in her voice pisses me off, so I stalk toward the cremated pastries, grab a plate and head to the kitchen table.

“You donothave to eat those,” Bailey says, nervously dancing on her feet.

Fuck that. If someone makes you food, you eat it. That’s how I was raised.

“I’m sorry for sleeping over,” I say, ghosting over her declaration and pouring syrup over my plate. “Just tired, I guess.”You were soft and warm and sleepy and I couldn’t leave.

She gives me a half-smile and joins me on the other side of the table with her own victimized pancakes. “It’s okay. I think I was so exhausted I didn’t realize until I woke up.”

I know she doesn’t want me sleeping over because she’s afraid she’ll get attached, but I’m already growing attached, so what does that mean for me? How do I leave her when she’s sleeping peacefully on my chest? When I sleep better with her than I ever have in my life alone?

I take a bite of pancake, managing a straight face through the bitter dark spots. The syrup helps, though there’s a lingering campfire aftertaste. Now, it’s my mission to teach her how to cook.

Bailey watches for my reaction, but when she doesn’t get one, a small glimmer of hope lights up her face. She makes a show of taking her own bite, and chewing it for a moment in silence. When she gags, sucking down a long drink of coffee, I have to suppress a laugh.

“That’s just a little tastier than cardboard,” she murmurs, taking a second bite. “No. On second thought, cardboard might be better.”

I do chuckle this time, eating my own pancakes.

“We’re going to teach you how to cook.”

She eyes me, suspiciously.

“What’s in it for me?”

“Less burnt pancakes.”

She rolls her eyes, but she laughs. “Not all of us grew up with fancy chef dads.”

“I imagine it’s hard to cook for yourself when you have a live-in chef?”

She narrows her eyes at me and tugs off a piece of pancake, chucking it at me across the table. I catch it and eat it, just to prove my point.

“I’ll spank your ass again,” I warn, pointing my fork at her.

She winces, adjusting in her chair, filling me with a dark satisfaction. “God, no. I need to recover. It feels like I have road rash every time I sit down.”

She catches the glimmer in my eye and blushes, eating another bite of pancake.

“Who taught you how to cook, anyway?” Bailey asks after a moment.

“Dad. Mom. Mawmaw when I was with her.”

Bailey smiles, finished the rest of her pancake. “My grandma baked a lot. She never taught us, though. She was fairly old when I was a kid.”

“And your other grandma?” I ask, assuming she’s talking about her dad’s mom.

She shrugs. “I never knew her. She disowned Mom for marrying Dad. Momalsodropped the bomb that she was pregnant with Mason the same day.”

“So, the odds weren’t in her favor?”

“No.” She grimaces, her brow furrowing. “Dad was a poor mechanic and Mom’s parents are rich New Yorkers. It’s why Mom pushed me so hard to marry Drew.” She rolls her eyes, sipping her orange juice. “Money.”

I grab another pancake, mostly because I don’t want her to stop talking and chew it slowly.

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