Page 34 of Omega's Secret Baby
He turned and laughed. “I didn’t. But you have all the ingredients.”
“You know how to cook?”
He smiled. “I wasn’t always rich, you know. My moms were busy people, trying to maintain a middle-class lifestyle, so they made sure my sister and I had the skills to take care of ourselves.”
“Your mama taught you to cook?” I asked, backing up and taking a seat at the table.
He shook his head. “No mama. Both my moms are alphas. They got each other pregnant during a shared rut. My sister and I were born only a few days apart. Then they both promptly declared pregnancy a miserable experience and were sterilized to prevent that ever happening again.”
I couldn’t hold back the laugh, and he smiled at me.
He turned back to the stove, flipped the pancake, then walked over.
I looked up at him, and sighed as he reached out and ran his fingers down my face. The touch was gentle, as if I was the most important thing in the world to him.
“We need to talk,” he whispered. “No more running. No hiding things.”
“Ok,” I breathed.
He leaned in and brushed his lips across mine, then returned to the stove.
How was it that such a gentle action had the ability to leave me breathless? I touched my lips, wanting more. Then I realized that he’d kissed me. After everything I put him through, he’d kissed me.
Was there a possibility that he could forgive me?
He set the butter dish on the table and beside it a measuring cup filled with warmed maple syrup. Then a moment later he returned with a plate of the fluffiest pancakes I’d ever seen outside a restaurant.
“Eat up,” he encouraged. “There’s plenty of batter.”
“Thank you,” I replied.
I took a bite and moaned at the flavor. Forget restaurants, I’d just been given the best pancakes I’d ever tasted.
“Good?” Jordan asked as the sizzle of fresh batter hitting the pan sounded from the kitchen.
“Amazing,” I replied.
He laughed. “Just wait. These are plain. My fruit ones will knock your socks off.”
“I have fruit,” I declared, the baby immediately latching onto the idea of even better pancakes.
“Yeah, but it’s frozen. I meant fresh.”
“Oh…” I replied, deflating.
He walked back out and rested his hand on my shoulder. “There’s time.”
I nodded and took another bite. “I almost never have pancakes,” I admitted. “I love them, but I usually need something more substantial.”
“It makes sense,” he replied, setting another plate full on the table. “Can’t be distracted by hunger when your job is saving lives.”
“Mm-hmm,” I replied, snagging a fresh one, slathering it in syrup and shoving it in my mouth.
Sizzling from the kitchen, then Jordan joined me at the table and prepared his own plate.
“Do you still cook for yourself?” I asked, trying to find something other than the obvious to talk about.
Jordan shook his head. “Sometimes, but not as much. I frequently eat out for business, and Wes talked me into hiring a chef, though I just have her prepare meals that I finish.”
