Page 90 of Go Find Less

I swallow, shutting the door to whatever mancave I’d just entered and padding back downstairs, landing in the kitchen. Fuck. I’ve gotta shake these feelings out of my head. All I want to do is go crawl back in bed and convince him to tell me more.

Instead, when my stomach grumbles, I open the fridge and peer inside. Surprisingly full for someone who seems to not be home that often. I’m not usually a breakfast kind of person, but last night’s activities have me feeling like protein is necessary, and I’m able to locate a container of eggs and a fresh package of bacon.

I scavenge in the cabinets and drawers, a boppy playlist echoing from my phone, since I’m not brave enough to fuck with the space-edge sound system and risk scaring the shit out of Queen and country. I finally pull out a frying pan and Roscoe eyes the bacon as I pull it out, piece by piece, and start frying it.

While I’m washing my hands again, I look over the counters in front of me - bare, except for where the box of chocolates from the night before sit with the tablet and a pile of papers.

It’s an email printout, pink and white, with the wordsFOR FNW TO EDIT - NEEDS OOMFscrawled across the top in a neat, swirly handwriting. Curious, I dry my hands, and with the bacon starting to sizzle behind me, I look the document over.

I’m nosy. Sue me.

It’s an email campaign for Cossette, the cute French venue where Maria tied the knot with her college sweetheart, Tony. Compared to the gorgeous space, the email feels plain - lackluster. It’s all words and blocks of white with a few pretty pictures.

I picture the sweeping staircase, the lighted outdoor dance space - the gorgeous chandelier hanging above the reception hall.

Pen. I need a pen.

Twenty minutes and two pans of bacon later, I’ve got notes scribbled all over the three pages that were stapled together, but now sit atop each other, like one, long email - the way it was meant to be seen.

My degree is in marketing, but visual design has always been my niche. Despite not having a lick of spatial awareness in real life, probably for the lack of athletics I participated in as a child (with good reason), on paper, and in a lot of other things, it’s my jam.

I can look at someone and tell you their measurements, or close to it. It’s a gift and a curse, because it means I’m the token shopping friend, the “does this look balanced” graphic last look from our social team at work, and the forever fixer of hanging art and stacked shelves.

Probably why this space looks so blase to me. I need things to occupy my brain.

By the time I pour the scrambled eggs into the pan with some of the residual bacon grease, I’ve stacked the papers back up and put them where I’ve found them, like it’ll erase the scribbles I’d left all over it.

To the beat of a song that came up in my Spotify suggestions last week, I tip the pan from side to side, trying to get an even coat on the bottom before I ruffle them up - a trick my Nona taught Penny and I when we were kids.

I hum to the catchy song, pointing at Roscoe with my spatula and singing a few lines to him while he stares in utter confusion. Clearly this is something Fitz and Olivia never did. Funny, because Bex gets this showat leastonce a week from either Carla or myself.

I’m twisting my hips from side to side, even singing a few lines out loud, before I dial the heat off and turn with the pan in my hand, using the spatula to fluff the last of the eggs.Take them off the heat before they’re done, Nona said.

“Finally, I found something you’re not good at.” Fitz’s voice makes me jump, so much that I almost drop the hot pan right on the floor. Luckily, it clatters only a foot down to the island in front of me, and with my heart beating out of my chest, I hold the hand that’s not gripping the edge of the counter for dear life up to feel the thuds. Fitz stands in front of me, leaning against the entryway to the kitchen in a white tee shirt and the shorts he’d slept in. That bruise is starting to get deeper in color.

His hair is gloriously mussed, though it’s clear he’s tried to tame it at least a bit, because there are no chunks sticking up at odd angles like mine had been with sweat and pressure.

“I’m perfectly alright at cooking,” I finally manage, and then spin to grab the plates and two forks I’d fished out earlier. When I turn back, he’s leaning against the island in front of me, putting his body weight on his hands so his shoulders shrug casually as he smirks. Actually smirks.

Fitz Westfall. Smirking at me, in his kitchen, after walking in on me shaking my ass to the latest addition to my favorites playlist. I swallow, trying to act casual as I scoop the eggs onto the plates next to the bacon already on them.

“I meant the singing.” I don’t even look up as I snort. Fitz moves to feed Roscoe, who skitters over to the bowl so fast his feet slide on the tile.

“Oh, yeah, no, not one of my great skills in life.” Penny got the voice of an angel. I sound like glass in a garbage disposal on a good day. Doesn’t keep me from a poorly-timed Adele rendition or the occasional drive down I-35 belting theLegally Blonde: The Musicalsoundtrack. I put the pan in the sink and sit next to him at the island, where he’s settled into one of the padded, backless barstools.

“I’m sure you have many redeeming qualities to make up for it, I’ve already seen a fair few.” He gives me a reassuring smile, and then digs into the food I’ve made, humming in approval.

“There’s quite a few I think you’ll find much more worthwhile than singing,” I say, more to myself, and then add, “for instance, my lack of gag reflex.”

The way he nearly chokes on the bite of egg he’s just taken has me covering my mouth to keep an unladylike cackle from escaping again. He gapes at me, his gaze flitting between my crinkled eyes and my hand over my lips. In this light, I can see that his pupils are completely blown.

Welp, that had the desired effect, because there’s no way I’m leaving this house without fucking him at least one more time.

You know, to at least have some variation to the things I think about when we’re no longer at arm’s length from each other.

The thought leaves me a little hollow inside - it feels like the last twenty four hours or so have gone by like days, soaking in each moment with him like it’s our last. Maybe it’s a force of habit after Mickey?

But the way that Fitz is suddenly eating very, very quickly snaps me back to reality, so that by the time I’m finishing up my plate, he’s already standing next to me, looking sort of impatient. He takes our dishes and puts them in the sink, and I almost spot a wince as he looks at the pile over his shoulder, crossing the room to let Roscoe outside. When he turns around, back to the door, his gaze is predatory.

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