Page 7 of Stick Break
I step closer, trying to sneak a look at whatever he’s cooking. Since I can’t quite see over his hulking shoulder, I lean around him—one hand brushing his back, the other resting lightly on his arm.
His whole body goes rigid, like I’ve triggered some kind of fight-or-flight response, and I instantly retreat a step. “Sorry,” I blurt. “Didn’t mean to, uh, touch you like that. Just wondering what smells so good.”
“Pancakes,” he says, voice a little lower than before. “Whipped cream and fruit are in the fridge. Can you grab those?”
“On it.” I spin around, grateful for the mission. I pull out blueberries, strawberries, and a can of whipped cream, placing them on the table with a little more enthusiasm than necessary.
I already know where the dishes are, so I grab two plates, two glasses, and start setting the table. Music still hums through the cottage, and it helps settle the flutter in my chest. Somehow, we’re finding a rhythm—not just in the space, but with each other.
“Do you do yoga every day?” he asks suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence.
As he flips a pancake, one slides off the spatula like it’s trying to escape. I grin. “Yeah, I do. I used to teach classes, too.”
He nods, thoughtful, and hands me a fluffy, golden pancake. Then he pours more batter into the pan, quiet again, like he’s mulling something over.
I pile my plate with fruit and whipped cream, fill our glasses with juice, and slide into one of the chairs. Rip stays at the stove, and I let him be, devouring carbs like it’s my full-time job.
God, I’ve missed carbs. When I was on the show, I had a strict diet—protein shakes, steamed vegetables, no sugar. No soul.
The cameras add ten pounds, Charly.
Yes, Mom. I know.
She didn’t want me in the music world, but if I was going to be in in, I guess I had to at least look good in her eyes. I mean, I am a reflection of my family, after all.
But this week? This strange, unexpected week by the beach? I’m doing whatever I want. Eating pancakes. Breathing. Healing.
Well, within reason, of course.
No sleepovers.
He finishes cooking his pancake, piles it with fruit and cream, then drops down beside me with a sigh. He takes a slow sip of juice, a deep crease cutting across his forehead like he’s trying to solve world hunger—or maybe just how we both ended up here.
“Gentle stretching’s good for strains, right?” he asks.
I nod. “Should help your shoulders.” But there’s more in that question, something about the stiff way he’s moving that he doesn’t want me to know. “We can do some gentle stretching today.”
He gives me a soft smile. “Thank you.”
“Hey, I owe you.”
“That’s true.”
I laugh, feeling the tension slip from my shoulders. “There’s nothing like the beach to cure what ails you, huh?” He takes a big bite, cream smudging his nose and scruff. “Maybe they should call you Santa.” I bet this man can deliver all kinds of goodness.
“Santa?” He grins. “Because you deliver all kinds of goodness.”
I tap my chin and hand him a paper towel.
“Ha. Ha.” He snatches it from me, and wipes his face as I bite back a grin. God, could he be any more adorable.
I stab a chunk of pancake, and hold it up. “For the record, this is just right.”
He grumbles, chewing, then drops a curveball: “We should probably talk rules.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Rules? There’s more?”
“There’s always more,” he grouches.
