Page 18 of My Lovely Tragedy
Such a dirty mouth. I like that it’s his way of expressing himself.
“My apologies. I only noticed you were struggling and figured I’d offer to help.”
He grunts “You mean take over.”
“No—”
“Yes,” he argues.“But that’s fine.” He pushes away—and into me. I inhale deeply as his body locks up at the feel of me all across his back. He pulls away just as quickly, to my regret, but I’ll take the slivers and pieces as they fall.
“I don’t know how your fancy shit works anyway,” he grumbles as he plops down on one of the barstools, head dropping into his palms.
“Well, this is an espresso machine. I use a French press for coffee. Much better flavor. But if you’d prefer an espresso, I can make you a drink with that.”
Brooklyn blinks at me, and in my head, I hear the obnoxious, high-pitched sound that cartoon characters make when they blink pointedly like that.
He lifts a brow before shaking his head. “Whatever you want is fine.”
“Coffee it is,” I hum as I put things back in their rightful places before going about putting the kettle on the stove. Then, I begin to grind the beans.
“Yougrindyour own coffee beans?” He sounds appalled. I laugh, a joyous, chest-filling sound as it bubbles out of me.
“Of course.”
“Of course,”he mocks, imitating my tone with too much flare. “You sound like a pretentious douchebag.”
With my back to Brooklyn, I allow myself to smile at his obvious offensive remark.What a wonderful boy.
I allow myself a subtle shrug as I turn to face him, my face neutral once more, but my eyes are alight with satisfaction. “Pretentious or not, I like things the way I like them. There is no shame in that.” I allow a quick glance at his eyes.
Brooklyn swallows, avoiding my gaze for once as his cheeks bloom a lovely light shade of pink. I look up at the ceiling, counting to some unknown number in my head as control slips between my fingers.
Iwant.But I cannot have. Not now and probably not ever.
Brooklyn is… different. And while I crave and desire to simplyknow,anything beyond that is vague at best, and I refuse to take advantage of his mere presence.
The kettle screaming pulls me out of my head, and I’m thankful for the distraction. The fresh, earthy scent of coffee fills the air as I let it steep, pulling out a package of bacon and a carton of eggs. It’s not until the sizzle of bacon crackles in the air and the scent nearly masks that of the coffee that Brooklyn finally speaks again.
“So… you like to cook?” I haven’t missed his blatant attempts at conversation so far this morning—and it is only nine A.M. The only question is why.But how wonderful.It appears I have amassed good fortune today.
“I do.” After pouring Brooklyn’s coffee, I slide his mug across the counter, gaze falling to his thick, scarred fingers as he grasps the ceramic.
“Cream and sugar, yes?” I ask, even as I pull the cream out of the fridge and hand it to him before crouching down to pull out a second skillet for the eggs. “How do you like your eggs?”
“However you make them.” A spoon clinks as he stirs his coffee.
“Not picky then?”
“No. Food’s food.” The spoon clatters on top of the counter.
“Hmm.” I hum as I flip a few slices, narrowly missing the splatter before pouring my own cup of much-needed caffeine.
We bask in an uneasy silence as I finish our breakfast and serve it on two warm plates. Brooklyn doesn’t wait before diving in, fork scraping against the matte black dish, cheeks puffed from how much he has shoveled in at once.
My chest expands, watching him eat my food.Enjoy it.
I take my place beside him, testing the waters at our close proximity, but keeping out of touching distance.
“Icarus.”
