My Best Friend's Ex(20)

Six fifteen. In the morning. I groan and flop my head back on my pillow. Why is it so early? I start to drift back to sleep when my traitorous nose sends SOS signals to my stomach about the bacon-filled air floating under my door. Being the little bitch my stomach is, she betrays me in the nastiest way and grumbles loudly, churning in on herself, begging for a slice of bacon.

"Ugh, stupid freaking bacon smell." I roll to a sitting position on my bed and wipe my eyes, trying to convince them that this early morning hour is okay, that they will make it through the wee hours we usually don't see. No college student should be awake at six fifteen.

Taking a second to stretch, I arch my back and let a few bones crack before I step into my slippers and make my way to my door. Yesterday I was able to organize my room just right and set everything up for the new week, which I was happy about because trying to study surrounded by a pile of boxes isn't ideal. It's not like there's a comfortable common space in the living room where I could study. So my hard work yesterday was key.

Since the house was built in the 1920s, the mornings during the winter apparently are chilly, that's why I'm leaving my room in a pink and green matching pajama set. Well, who am I kidding? I wear matching pajama sets all the time. I find them to be whimsically fun. 

When I open my door, the sound of eggs on a fry pan and brewing coffee hit me head-on, as well as the sweet, smoky smell of bacon, of course. I push my hair out of my face and head to the kitchen where lights are blazing, burning my retinas.

"Hell," I mutter, covering my face from the fluorescent lighting of the kitchen.

"Morning," Tucker's deep voice rattles off the cabinets. It's his morning voice, deeper, throatier-if that makes sense-and I hate to admit it, because he's just my friend, but sexier.

Once my pupils adjust to the light, I take Tucker in. He's standing in front of the stove, rubber spatula in hand, wearing a white long-sleeved Henley, the top two buttons undone, a pair of worn jeans with a few paint stains on them, and tan work boots. Sweet Jesus, he makes construction look good. Strap a tool belt around his hips and stick him in front of a camera for the benefit of all womankind.

"Morning," I say in reply, using the counter to help hold up my tired body. "You're up early. What time do you have to go into work?"

"Around seven thirty. I like to get an early start before the boys come in." He looks me up and down, a small smile at the corner of his lips. "You look good." He motions around his head with his hand. "I really like what you did with your hair."

I turn toward the window in the kitchen and check out my reflection. Sure enough, my long brown hair looks like a lion's mane poofed out and framing my face with an abundance of volume. Beautiful.

There is no use in taming it, so I leave my hair as is and turn back toward Tucker. "Not many people can get this kind of height while sleeping." I pretend to fluff my hair.

"Impressive." He chuckles and then points to the coffee maker with the spatula. "Coffee is done, mugs are above in the cabinet. Grab me a cup, will ya? Eggs will be done shortly, bacon is warming in the oven."

I do as directed, thinking it's kind of cute how he's including me in on his little morning breakfast. "I didn't even know you had eggs. I was expecting to hit up Dunkin' Donuts or Tim Horton's this morning."

He turns off the stove and reaches for two plates from the dish rack. "I went to Walmart this morning. Picked up a few things."

"This morning?" I pour two cups of coffee and turn toward him. "What time did you wake up?"

"Four thirty," he answers casually. "Got a quick run in, did some weights, took a shower, and then went to Walmart." He fills our plates with bacon and eggs and then nods toward the dining room, plates and silverware in hand. "I have a surprise."

I follow him to the dining room where he flips on the light and reveals a table and chairs.

"You got a table." I chuckle, loving that it's a fold-out card table with matching chairs. Anything is better than the floor.

"And placemats," he adds, as he lifts two plastic placemats from one of the chairs. "The options were bleak so I went with dinosaurs for me and Trolls for you. Given the look of your morning hair, Trolls was the right choice." Clever bastard. He sets them on the table and then puts our plates on top of them.

God, it's too freaking cute. Chuckling, I take a seat and hand him his coffee. "Look at you getting all domestic. I never thought you would be a placemat kind of man, so I stand corrected."

He rests a napkin on his legs, which are spread drastically, almost the length of the table and leans over to fork some eggs into his mouth. "Didn't want our food to damage the plastic of this high-class table." I love his humor; it reminds me of all the good times we had, before the end of his relationship with Sadie.