Page 89 of Wild Card
Bacon, ham, and sausage.
Waffles, toast, andhash browns.
Eggs—Benedict andscrambled.
Fruit salad andfresh-squeezed orange juice.
Overkill? Absolutely. Do I care? Not in the slightest.
I care even less the second she pads into the kitchen. She’s wearing a matching pajama set—shorts and a long-sleeved, collared shirt. Her face is scrubbed clean, and her hair is piled in a loose, messy tumble on top of her head. She still has imprinted lines on her cheek from where it was clearly pressed into the pillow.
She’s fucking breathtaking. And the fact that she didn’t roll out ofmybed is downright criminal.
“What is all this?” Her voice is still thick with sleep, and it makes me wish I had been there to wake up next to her. It makes me wish I had told her I wanted her in my bed again. I’d beenbold enough to ask her that night when I first came back and too shit-scared to say more ever since.
What I should have been brave enough to tell her is that I didn’t want that to be a one-night thing.
I wanted it to be an every-night thing.
“It’s a birthday breakfast. Happy birthday.”
She clasps her hands at her chest, and I watch her cheeks flush a light pink as she takes in the spread. “It’s too much.”
I scoff. “Nah. I enjoyed making it. You eat whatever you want. If there’s leftovers, then whatever.”
She blinks a couple of times. “No, I meant that you didn’t need to do this.”
I’m pouring her a cup of coffee when I stop, look up at her, and say simply, “But I wanted to.”
She swallows, looking more moved by an over-the-top breakfast than I expected. “Thank you.”
I nod and round the island toward her, coffee cup outstretched in her direction. “You’re welcome. Take a seat. Tell me what you want, and I’ll serve it up.”
With a soft smile, she wraps her palms around the coffee cup and makes her way to one of the stools at the island’s counter, gazing over the options.
“Honestly, I kind of want some of everything? It looks amazing.” She sounds bashful admitting she wants it all, whereas I’m just thrilled she doesn’t hate what I made.
“Coming right up. What my girl wants, she gets.”
The term slips so easily from my tongue that I don’t even have the time to prevent it. My eyes flit to hers, to see if there’s any negative reaction there. Instead, I find her watching me curiously, head slightly tilted as though I’m a puzzle she can’t figure out.
And who could blame her? I haven’t exactly been straightforward.
I decide not to explain themy girlthing away and just carry on plating her food. When I set it down in front of her, she beams. And I can’t help but feel like I’d make her breakfast every damn morning to see that look on her face.
I hand her cutlery. “I have a surprise for you after you’re finished.”
Her lips press together, but I can tell by the way her cheeks bulge that she’s pleased—if a little overwhelmed. She then takes a bite of the syrup-drizzled waffle, moaning softly like it’s the best thing she’s eaten in her life. I puff up a bit, getting off on how satisfied she seems.
I’m standing there making “googly eyes” at her, as Clyde had called it, when he appears in the doorway. He takes one look at the food laid out and then pulls up a seat beside Gwen. “I wish Bash were in love with me. Then maybe he’d make me nice breakfasts too.”
I spray my mouthful of coffee into my hand right as Gwen barks out a shocked laugh and thumps a flattened palm on her chest.
At the sink, I shake my hand off, looking down over my plain gray T-shirt and noting the splatter of coffee droplets. I’m about to give Clyde a piece of my mind for being such a meddlesome shit-disturber when the doorbell rings.
All three of us freeze. We’ve lived together for long enough to know that sound doesn’t go off much. And last time it did, it brought along an unexpected visitor.
Both Gwen and Clyde stare at me with wide eyes.
