The minute he’s out of sight, I drop the spatula onto the counter, bits of cinnamon-infused egg scattering across the dark marble surface. I run my fingers through my hair and look toward the empty doorway, wondering why the hell I can’t seem to get my body to understand that he’s unavailable in the most extreme way.
My brain gets it, but every time I’m around him, it’s like I mentally check out, and my body just does whatever the hell it wants.
Okay, so maybe not, because if that happened, this counter would have my naked ass prints all the hell over it, and the smell of my French toast burning would be real and not in my imagination.
Wait a minute…
“Shit!” I shout, reaching out and turning the burner off before sliding the pan to an empty burner. I grab the spatula to remove the slice of bread from the pan, but it doesn’t come easily; I actually have to scrape it off.
The smoke is thick, and the smell of burned toast and egg is heavy in the air. I open the kitchen window and turn on the fan above the stove. It doesn’t seem to help as quickly as I’d like, so I slide the patio door open wide and begin to fan the air with the dishtowel that Greyston keeps on the oven handle.
“What happened in here?” Greyston asks, his eyes instantly finding mine as he rushes toward me. “It smells like you burned something.”
I grimace. “Damn,” I groan. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice. I wasn’t paying attention, and the heat must have been too high. I burned it. That’s all. No fires, I swear.” He looks from me to the plated pieces of toast, still concerned. “The other five slices are fine. I promise.” I laugh lightly. “I really am a decent cook, so don’t hold this against me, okay?”
Letting his lips twist up into the smile I’ve come to look forward to, he grips my upper arm reassuringly. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” He releases me and grabs two glasses from the cupboard before offering me orange juice.
“Sounds great. Thanks.”
I finish cutting up some fruit for a salad, leaving the beautiful, plump strawberries he has in the fruit drawer out of it, and we take what I’ve decided are our usual seats.
Greyston eyes his fruit bowl and frowns. “No strawberries?”
I shrug. “Allergic. I can grab the basket for you if you’d like,” I offer.
“Oh, I didn’t know. Sorry.”
I giggle. “Why are you sorry? Should I be aware that this is somehow all your fault?” He chuckles, spearing a piece of cantaloupe. “It’s not too bad,” I tell him. “I won’t die if I eat them; I just break out in this really itchy rash that covers almost my entire body. It’s extremely unpleasant.”
Greyston smiles. “Good to know.”
After breakfast, Greyston offers to clean up since I took the liberty last night, and I take the opportunity to go and switch my laundry over. As I am pulling my clothes out of the washer and placing them in the dryer, it occurs to me that not all of my clothes are dryer friendly.
My bras and panties, for example.
I tell myself Greyston likely has zero interest in my underwear anyway, so I hang them on the little clothes rack he’s got in the large laundry room. Once my clothes are swapped, I head back upstairs to find Greyston on the phone.
“Yes. Greyston Masters and Toby Singer… Mmm hmm… That’s right.” It’s obvious that he’s securing his and Toby’s hotel room for their trip this week. “Perfect. Thank you… You have a good day, too.”
He hangs up the phone and shrugs. “Hotel.”
“I figured.” I take a seat at the island. “You get everything figured out?”
“Yes. Toby will be more than pleased,” Greyston assures me with a laugh.
“Oh good, because I’d hate to see him upset,” I say playfully.
Greyston shrugs. “He’s not a big grudge holder. He’d be over it within the first twelve hours.” His cell rings, and I glance down to see Toby’s name flash across the screen.
Wanting to give them privacy, I stand up and start to back out of the kitchen. “Okay, well I’m going to go and study for a bit.” I head upstairs to my room where I toss my books on the end of my bed and lay down on my stomach. Pencil and highlighter in-hand, and notebook open to where I left off last night, I set to work.
About an hour in, there’s a knock on my door. “Come in.” I turn my head to see Greyston peer inside.
“The dryer’s buzzing,” he informs me. “I can grab your laundry and bring it up if you’d like? I’m headed down to put my whites in anyway.”
“Oh, I have a load in the wash that needs to be switched over.” I hop up off the bed, and Greyston is right behind me, his own laundry basket in his arms.