Page 100 of Forgotten Comeback
The soft sound of bare feet pricks my ears, and I can feel without turning around that it’s Taylor.
“Smells good. Whatcha making?” She crosses the room and hops up on the counter, wearing my T-shirt, and that does even more dumb shit to my head.
“Egg protein bowls.”
Taylor narrows her eyes. “Alright now, I can’t eat healthy 24/7.”
Her breasts are molded to my shirt, which is now spattered with crimson. My eyes stroll back up to hers, and she clears her throat.
“You got paint on my shirt,” I tell her.
“I’m sorry,” she says apologetically. “I didn’t want to wake you, and this was the first thing I grabbed.”
“Don’t apologize. It looks good on you. Would look even better off you,” I say suggestively.
“And there he is,” Taylor says with an eye roll.
But she’s smiling, and I smile too. “Your tea should be ready.”
She hops down and grabs the mug, squeezing out the tea bag before tossing it. My dick’s keenly aware she’s wearing only my shirt, and I force my attention to the stove.
Blowing on her mug, she takes a sip. “Who taught you to cook?”
“No one. Back when I was starting in the boxing world, my coach’s wife kept me fed.”
“The man who spoke Portuguese?” Taylor wonders.
“Yeah,” I say, really wishing I hadn’t brought up the subject. “Anyway, I learned early on how to fend for myself.”
“What about your family?” she wonders.
My spine straightens, and I focus all my attention on the pan.
“See, Gavin, this is why we’d never work,” she announces. “Part of being in a relationship is getting to know each other.”
“Actions, not words, right? I’ve gotta know I can trust you,” I tell her honestly.
Taylor cocks her head. “That’s fair. But can’t you tell me something? Like how you got into boxing?”
“That one’s easy. Got into a fight, broke a boy’s jaw, and was expelled from school at age twelve.”
Taylor snorts a laugh. “That’s one way to do it.”
I shake my head with a little smile. “Yeah, I guess so. What about you? How did you get into painting?”
“My grandma encouraged it.” She takes another sip of her tea. “When I moved to AC, I was an angry tween, and I needed something to help me get out of my own way.”
“Why did you move here?” I ask, already having researched the answer.
“My mom died, and I came to live with my grandma. I went from no rules to a caretaker who set boundaries. Of course, I tested them.”
“I bet you were hell on wheels,” I comment.
“Much to my grandma’s chagrin.” She smiles ruefully. “My mom was really young and not ready to be a parent; that’s not an excuse, but in hindsight, I have more empathy for her,” she says more somberly. “What about your mom?”
Turning off the stove, I divvy up the eggs between the bowls and hand her one. “She was a piece of work, and I’m being generous. If a shrink had gotten hold of her, they’d have a great case study for borderline personality disorder.”
Taylor eyes me inquisitively. “How do you know that term?”
