“Ha‐ha, very funny.” I rolled over and gave him a dirty look before putting my arm over my face so I could go back to sleep.
“Fine. Have it your way.”
I heard his footsteps retreat, and I sighed as I tried to drift back into unconsciousness.
“This is kind of hot, Lie.” My eyes popped open and landed on Abel holding up a hot‐pink thong. I’m sure my face was the same color as the tiny undergarment. I flew from the bed and snatched it out of his hand, slapping him on the arm.
“What are you doing, you pervert?” I whisper‐yelled.
“Personally I liked that matching beige number you wore to bed with me the other night.” His face was so close that we were breathing the same air, and he smelled even more like alcohol than when he’d come in earlier. His tone was carefree and flirty, but his grin was pure wickedness.
“Stop it. That’s only for my boyfriend to see.” I walked around him and opened my underwear drawer to shove them back in.
“Ah, yes. The boyfriend. What’s his name? Broke?”
“Brock.” I slammed my drawer and turned to face him, my back against the dresser.
“Right. Brock.” He took a step closer, and I put my hand on his chest, his skin hot under my touch.
“How is it possible that you’re even drunker now?”
Abel pulled a silver flask from his pocket and shook it. “You also had a fine sampling of boxed wines in your fridge. Very classy.” His eyebrow rose.
“Only the best for guests who won’t leave.”
He looked down at his chest, where my hand was still against him, then back to me. I pulled my hand away and tucked my hair behind my ear. “You get even more obnoxious when you drink.”
“Thank you.”
“Wasn’t a compliment.” We looked at each other for a long minute. “Fine. I’ll make you breakfast. Maybe it’ll help you sober up.”
He grinned in victory as I walked around him and toward the kitchen. I kept the light off and turned on the small one over the stove.
Abel took a seat at the table and stretched out his legs on the chair next to him. “Don’t you want to know how I like my eggs?”
“No.” I pulled open the fridge and grabbed the half‐used carton of eggs and the milk. I placed them on the counter and grabbed some cheese and turkey lunch meat. If I was going to make breakfast, I was going to make it how I liked. I might add a little spit to his.
I grabbed a pan and set it on the stove then turned on the burner and cracked the eggs into a bowl.
“Don’t you miss him?” Abel asked, and I sighed as I poured a little milk in with the eggs.
“Miss who, Abel?” I knew exactly who he was talking about, but I wanted to delay the inevitable heartache for an extra moment or two.
“I miss my family,” he said.
His confession surprised me, and I turned around to look at him. “Why don’t you go to California to see them?”
He laughed sadly. “My mom used to cook everything from scratch. It was crazy. Most people I knew had maids and cooks but not us. Mom wanted to make sure we ate healthy and weren’t eating some bullshit fast food.”
“Must have been nice.” I turned back around and mixed the eggs with a fork.
“It was.” I heard the smile in his voice. “Nothing like home cooking, right?”
“I wouldn’t really know. I cooked for myself mostly, and it was never anything fancy. I lived off hot dogs and mac and cheese on the good days.” I used the back of my hand to catch a wayward tear on my cheek as I grabbed the butter from the fridge.
“Yeah. After thirteen that was pretty much how it went for me too.”
“Why did they send you here?” I glanced over my shoulder, and Abel was still smiling from the nostalgia.
“I’m not nearly drunk enough to go into that right now. Maybe some other time.”
I nodded and went back to cooking our omelet. Abel’s mood swings were giving me whiplash. One minute he was so frustrating that I wanted to scream, and the next he was coaxing tiny details out of me that I hadn’t even told Marie. I felt like we had a secret in common, and that was enough to help me readjust the load on my shoulders and stand just a little taller.
“I hope you like omelets.”
“I thought I didn’t have a choice.”
“You don’t, but one way or another, you’ll eat it. Makes it easier if you enjoy them.”
“You’re cold‐blooded, Kettle. I love omelets.”
I smiled to myself as I slid his omelet onto a plate and cut it in half. I nudged his legs, and he pulled his feet off my chair so I could sit down. I placed the plate between us and held out two forks. He took one as his dimples settled deeply into his sun‐kissed cheeks.