Page 82 of On The Rocks

“Don’t get excited. You cooked for me—twice.”

“Laverne’s stew doesn’t count.”

“It’s nice. Making meals for myself sucks.” She cleared her throat and went to the coffee maker and poured a hefty mug of coffee for each of us. She came back and handed one to me. “You’re not going to make it weird, are you?”

“I’ll attempt to keep myself in check.” I hooked my free arm around her and lifted her against me to kiss her lightly. “Smells great. There’s creamer in the fridge, if you want.”

“You like the good stuff.”

“Sometimes. Mostly black, but sometimes I want something sweet.” I let her go and went to the fridge and put a dollop of the Snickers creamer in mine and hers.

“Fifteen minutes for the frittata.”

“Good. We can make out for ten.”

“Hey, now.” She laughed as she darted down the stairs to the record player. “What are you feeling today?”

“Blues.”

She touched each edge of the record as she perused them. “Your organization skills are odd.”

“Because there isn’t one. I gave up on it.” I took my mug with me as I followed her down. “I’m not the color coding or spreadsheet type.”

“How about alphabetizing?”

“Nope.”

She laughed. “Easter hunt, it is. Oh, this is a good one.” She flashed the limited press Miles Davis and set it on the turntable.

The soulful trumpet filled the room.

She picked up her mug and took a sip, her dark eyes on mine. “Do I get my Jeep back someday?”

“Today. Might even be out there now. Tommy said he’d drop it first thing.”

She set her mug on the end table and headed for the door. She peeked out, then closed it with a wrinkled nose. “Not yet.”

“Let me check my phone.” I went into my bedroom and returned with it, scrolling for any messages. “Said he’ll be here before noon. Found something wrong with your axel.”

“What? My Jeep is in perfect shape.”

“I’m not the mechanic. I appreciate cars and motorcycles, but I know nada about them.”

“Sure he’s not hosing you?”

“No. But he’s Justin’s friend, so I doubt it.”

She blew raspberries at me before returning to the kitchen to take out our breakfast. I set the table, finding a carafe in my cabinet for some orange pineapple juice I had on hand, and the always important hot sauces.

“I didn’t even know I had the ingredients in my fridge.”

“I’ve learned to make do with what’s on hand.” She brought the frittata out on a plate, and we sat down to eat.

“Justin and Beck are taking today off for the renovations. We can head out and do something if you want.” I cut into the fluffy quiche-like breakfast and hummed out an appreciative sound at the taste, then added a bit of hot sauce. “Really good. Thanks.”

“Like what?” She added her own—generously enough to give me heartburn for her—and forked up her own bite. “And I need clothes.”

“Think we can manage that. Maybe we will head over to Crescent Cove. Looks like we might be getting a pretty day.” I glanced out at the big window to see blue skies and very little clouds.

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