Page 52 of The Icing on the Cake
“So your dates never made it to breakfast?” she asks, her voice laced with curiosity.
“If you think I’ve had a revolving door of overnight guests, the answer is no. The truth is, I don’t do the casual-dating thing. Never have. I’m more of a ‘find your person and never let them go’ kind of guy.” One more thing I don’t say: I’m the kind of man who wants to wake up next to the same beautiful face and never grow tired of it.
She glances over at me for a second before turning back to the waffle mix. “Is this the same grandfather who taught you how to fix things?”
I nod as I add the last of the ingredients. “He and Grandmahelped raise me after my parents divorced when I was young. When Mom was married, she always missed the small town where she and Dad grew up—the people, the connections, the way everyone comes together to help each other. But Dad didn’t want anything to do with it, probably because he had made things awkward with Grandpa. So he chose his business over family.” I reach for the waffle iron on the top shelf and immediately regret it as my ribs throb.
“Here, let me,” Neesha says, stepping next to me. When she reaches for the waffle maker, her body bumps against mine for the briefest second.
“That must have been hard,” she says, handing me the waffle iron. She doesn’t look nearly as affected as I am about our brief touch. Maybe it’s because I’m the one who woke up to the vision of her next to me—a memory I’m not going to get over anytime soon.
“I learned a good lesson: Grandpa always said some people build bridges, and others burn them. It’s clear which one my dad was. But he also taught me that the best things in life are built slowly. And they can be torn down in seconds by one bad decision.”
“Your grandfather sounds really wise,” she says, then watches me as I plug in the waffle iron. “You know, for a guy who got bodychecked on the ice last night, you’re surprisingly functional.”
“I told you, I don’t get hurt much.”
She snorts a little. “Says the man covered in bruises.”
“I’ve been told scars are sexy,” I say with a half-smirk.
“Who said that? Your teammates with missing teeth?”
I laugh, then instantly regret it as my ribs protest again. “Okay, new rule: no making me laugh. It hurts too much.”
“I wasn’t aware I was funny,” she says, pouring batter into the waffle iron. “Just honest.”
“That’s what makes you dangerous, Neesha,” I murmur. “Truth is the funniest kind of comedy. And I like talking with you. It makes everything hurt less.”
Her hand pauses on the waffle iron, just for a second. But she doesn’t say anything.
The timer beeps, breaking our moment, and I open the lid. The waffle is golden brown and smells delicious.
I put it on a plate and hand it to Neesha before pouring more batter into the iron. Then I pull out all the toppings. Fresh strawberries and blueberries, chocolate sauce, Nutella and whipped cream.
She piles the toppings on her hot waffle before taking her first bite. “Lucian—these are actually incredible.”
“Don’t sound so shocked,” I say. “Told you Grandpa’s recipe was legendary.”
“I just…” She bites her lip. “I thought you were overselling your skills to get me to stay.”
“Is it working?” I ask.
She props an elbow on the counter like we’ve been eating breakfast together for years. “A guy who cooks breakfastanddoesn’t burn the house down? I mean, that’s basically husband material right there.”
I grin. “Keep talking like that and I might end up suggesting matching outfits and a Costco membership.”
She laughs, and I’m reminded how much I love the sound of it—especially in my house, where she seems to put her guard down. I like that she’s comfortable here, that she can be herself and let me make her breakfast.
She takes another bite. “Hate to disappoint you, but I will never do coordinating outfits, Lucian.”
“Not even with the name of your bakery on it?” I ask.
“I don’t even have a bakery yet.”
“But when you do, I will gladly wear a shirt that has your bakery on it. You can even call me Mr. Cupcake.”
Her eyes spark with amusement. “Even if it’s pink?”
