Page 30 of My Lovely Tragedy
“You literally passed out, and now you’re making pancakes. They’re easy. I can do it.”
I glance up to where he’s seated on the barstool, eyes narrowed, arms still crossed—a defensive stance. His hair is now brushed with silky smooth tendrils flowing over his shoulders, a few caught in his stubble.
My fingers twitch against the spoon, desperate to brush them away.
I suck in a breath, preparing to store the visual away for later, but my brain is already searching for the right words.
Golden silk, long and feathered as it grazes across his body. An elegant contrast suited for such an ethereal creature. But beneath his visible beauty, there is a roughness. An edge of heat and anger. So close to the surface, it’s vying for a way out.
“Dude.”
I blink.
“Yes?”Never before in my life have I been called ‘dude’, yet I find it quite amusing and a testament to his youth. Of our differences.
“The pancake is burning.” I glance down. Smoke curls up in thick plumes, the putrid smell wafting into my nostrils.
I grimace and turn the burner off before scraping the pancake into the garbage. After setting the skillet back on the stove, I leave it to cool before I start cooking again.
“Seriously, are you okay? Doesn’t seem like you to burn food.”
“How did your conversation go?” I change the subject easily. And Brooklyn’s so eager to talk about his family, he doesn’t notice my blatant curiosity—and worry. And overture.
His smile—that real, genuine smile—breaks his face, and my heart along with it.
I distract myself by adding more butter to the skillet and pouring out the batter.
“Good. I mean, it got cut short because you nearly fell on your face.” I grimace with embarrassment, which makes Brooklyn grin. “But it was good to talk to them. They’ve been worried… which… I don’t know.” He grips his nape. “I kinda thought they would be but…”
“Worried they wouldn’t.”
He nods, eyes on the path his finger traces on the countertop. “Something like that. But anyway, I told them I’m fine, and I’ll be home in a couple of days.”
His words of leaving make my blood run cold. “They didn’t ask where you are?”
I pop a freshly—and perfectly—cooked pancake on a plate—which Brooklyn snatches up the second it lands on the glass.
“Damn, this is good,” he mumbles around a mouthful. “Yeah, they did. I just said I’m with a friend at his place outside the city. They seemed fine with it, if not slightly concerned.” He shrugs, cheeks puffed out with another bite.
Warmth sizzles back in at the cavalier mention of being a friend. “If you wish to go home now, I can try to clear the drive?—”
He tosses his hand into the air. “It’s fine. I already said I’d be here a couple more days. If that’s okay with you?”
I nod once, sharp and to the point. “Of course.”
“Cool. So, what are we going to do with our two more days of freedom?” I chuckle.
“Whatever you wish.” Another pancake added that he tries to steal. “Would you wait? I’d like to have a proper breakfast—which I cannot have if you steal every pancake as I make it.”
Brooklyn holds his hands in the air. “Sheesh, touchy touchy. I’ll grab some plates.” He slides off the stool and disappears behind me. I hear the slamming of cupboard doors and the clinking of glass. The fridge opens, then shuts. Then opens again.
“Can I help you find something?” I ask with amusement.
“No, no. I’ve got it, Mr. Chef. You just cook the food.”
“If you insist,” I murmur. Brooklyn huffs.
By the time I’ve used up the last of the batter, Brooklyn has set up a miniature breakfast bar. There’s a line of fruit, an array of toppings, whipped cream, and maple syrup. Granola, coconut flakes, chocolate chips.
