Page 116 of Best Friends for Never

“Good,” he says, turning back to the stove and grabbing the scrambled eggs to plate them, “because I made breakfast. We have eggs, home fries, sausage, pancakes, and fruit.”

“It smells amazing.” I slide into one of the chairs at the two-person table. He already has everything set out—hot sauce, shredded cheese for the potatoes, syrup, and butter—even salsa, since he knows I love it on my eggs. “But you didn’t have to do all this for me. I was only kidding last night.”

He pauses, and I don’t miss it.

Crap.

Does he remember whatelseI said last night too?

If he does, he doesn’t say anything and continues to plate our breakfast.

He brings them over, settling one in front of me and the other in front of his chair. Then he grabs the two glasses of orange juice and brings them over before sitting down.

He lifts one glass to his lips, then takes a healthy sip before smacking them together dramatically.

“Taxes?” I ask. He grins, then hands me the juice he just took a drink from. “I hate taxes.”

“I don’t know. I kind of love them.” He winks as I take a sip, then points to my plate. “Now eat. We’ve got a big day ahead of us.”

I set the glass down and raise a brow. “We do?”

“Yes.”

“Care to tell me what we have going on?”

“Eat first.”

“Fine.” I slide my knife through the butter, then drop a big glob onto my pancakes before drowning them in syrup. I firmly believe that’s why pancakes were invented—as an excuse to eat butter and syrup for breakfast.

I take a bite, and though I should be embarrassed by the moan that leaves me, I can’t find it in me. Not when it tastes so good.

“Holy ... This is thebestpancake I’ve ever had. How do you get them so fluffy?”

“Do you go to a restaurant and ask the chef their secrets? My lips are sealed.”

“Mean. Guess I’ll just have to kidnap you and keep you here so you can make these for me forever.”

He pauses for the second time this morning, and it takes me a moment to realize what I’ve said.

It’s a reminder that his time here is limited. It’s a reminder that I’m playing a dangerous game by getting so attached to him, but I don’t care—not when it feels so good, so right.

I just want to relish this little bubble we’ve created for a bit longer.

When we’ve both cleared our plates, I move to start cleaning up.

“Whoa there. What do you think you’re doing?” Noel asks as I lean over the table, reaching for his dishes.

“Um, cleaning?”

“Not happening. Sit. I’ll clean.”

“No. You cooked. I’ll clean.”

“Or hear me out, you sit, andIclean since I made the mess.”

I sigh. “Noel.”

“Don’tNoelme. Sit.”

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