Page 43 of Off Season

I lean against the door and watch him. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of basketball shorts and his glasses, the muscles in his broad back rippling as he moves so effortlessly around the kitchen. The reminder of how he picked me up as if I weighed nothing last night plays like an endless reel in my mind.

His hips sway slightly to the somber tune, and there’s something so attractive about a man who goes barefoot in his home.

His chocolate brown eyes light up when he spots me, his lips morphing into a wide smile. I know he doesn't smile often, but it seems to be a common occurrence around me.

My romantic heart can’t help but think I’m the reason.

It’s a dangerous thought.

I move toward him, but he meets me halfway, scooping me up in his big, strong arms and pressing his mouth to mine in a scorching kiss.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning,” I reply, wrapping my arms around his neck. “You’re cooking me breakfast?”

“Always.” He kisses me again before letting me go, and pulls out a stool at the island for me to sit down on before moving to grab a cup and placing it under the coffee maker. “I like taking care of you.”

Butterflies flutter in my stomach at his earnest expression. It’s been so long since someone took care of me. Or, more like it’s been so long since I’veallowedsomeone to take care of me. Alex did when I had the flu last year. I was sosick, I couldn’t even get out of bed. I didn’t really have a choice.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, sliding the steaming cup of coffee across the counter.

“Good.” I smile, wrapping my hands around the cup. “I haven’t slept that well in a very long time.”

“I figured. You were out cold when I got up.” He smiles back. “You’re not sore, though?”

Leaning over, I squeeze his hand and shake my head once, smiling. “No, I’m okay, thank you.”

Seeming content with my answer, he nods once, then goes back to the stove. He cracks some eggs into a bowl and whisks, adding a small dash of milk and tossing them into a pan. I take a sip of my coffee, just watching him move.

“What are you making?”

“Breakfast burritos,” he says while shredding some cheese. “Sausage, scrambled eggs, tomato, avocado, and cheese.”

My stomach chooses that moment to growl loudly. Ethan looks over his shoulder with a grin. “Won’t be too long, don’t want you to get hangry on me now.”

I scoff and stick out my tongue. “I won’t, I’m not you.”

A few minutes later, he browns the tortillas and plates them up, sprinkling some chopped chives on top of the eggs, and I’m moaning around mouthfuls. “This is so good.”

“Yeah?”

I nod. “I could eat this every day.”

Ethan opens his mouth, then must think better of it and closes it again. He presses his lips together and smiles before taking another bite.

“Who taught you to cook?”

“My mom.” He says between mouthfuls. “I wanted to be able to cook so she didn’t need to worry about it when she got home from work.”

There’s an ache in my chest at his admission. I don’t know what to say. I don’t think there’s anything Icouldsay that would tell Ethan just how much my heart breaks for younger him.

“I borrowed some recipe books from the library, and the days when she worked until late, I would make sure she had something ready.”

I bite down on my bottom lip, willing the back of my eyes to stop burning. “I?—”

“It’s fine, J,” he says gruffly. “It’s in the past now, but I guess I like to take care of people, and what better way to care for them than through food.”

I smile, but the twitch in his jaw tells me he’s done with this conversation.

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