Page 6 of Uxpectedly Ever After

She leads me through the apartment, which is exactly what I'd expect from Clover James—spotless, organized, and much warmer than she pretends to be. There are exposed brick walls, bright throw pillows, and plants fucking everywhere. Every bookshelf is organized by color, creating a rainbow effect that somehow looks pretty instead of lame. The kitchen gleams with neat countertops and labeled canisters.

I’m almost afraid to touch anything.

“Bathroom’s there.” She points to a door off the living room. “My room is on the other side. The couch is a futon and pulls out into a bed. I set fresh sheets on the chair for you.”

“Thanks.” It’s a simple gesture, but after two weeks of grabbing sleep on my buddy’s dingy floor, I could kiss her for it. An actual bed sounds like heaven.

As much as I love to fuck with her, she really is doing me a solid here.

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, and I notice she's barefoot. Her toenails are panted a sparkly blue. It's so unexpectedly intimate, seeing her guard down like this, that I have to look away before I pop a boner picturing all the things we could do naked.

Since apparently, I’m desperate enough for her that bare feet equal nakedness.

"Hungry?" she asks abruptly.

I realize I can't remember the last time I ate something. "Starving."

"I made sourdough last night. Grilled cheese okay?"

"You bake?" For some reason, this surprises me. How did my obsession with all things Clover not uncover that she likes to bake?

"When I'm stressed." Her eyes flick to mine, daring me to say something. If I wasn’t so tired, I would. "I spent most of last night baking after Kasen dropped this ‘Hey, my bestie’s living with you now’ bomb on me yesterday.”

"I can find somewhere else—"

"It's fine." She waves me off like it’s nothing. “I said yes, didn't I? It's done."

She moves into the kitchen, and I follow, watching this girl I’ve known since she was a mouthy teenager. I’ve seen Clover James roll her eyes at drunk idiots, slam down shots like water, and handle troublemakers with the same gives no fucks attitude she handles everything else with. But here in her own kitchen, there’s a softness I’m not used to seeing as she pulls out bread, butter, and cheese.

She made homemade fucking sourdough, for Christ’s sake.

"You can sit," she says, nodding toward the small table tucked against the wall. "Unless you want to shower first. You smell like a campfire."

“Hazards of the job.” I run a hand through my hair, grimacing at the gritty feel. “I’ll clean up after. If I jump in hot water now, I’m pretty sure I’ll pass out face-first in my sandwich.” I do get up and wash my hands, though.

She nods, her movements precise as she slices bread that looks like something from a magazine. "How bad was it? The fire."

Part of me wants to play it off, but there’s an undercurrent of real concern in her voice that tugs an honest answer out of me. “Bad. It was an old building with a shit ton of chemicals stored improperly. We're lucky it didn't spread to the neighboringstructures." My eyes follow her hands as she butters the bread. Which, of course, makes me think of how her fingers would feel against my skin—something I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about right now. “One of our probies got lost in the smoke. I had to go after him.”

Her head snaps up, eyes wide. “You went back in?”

“It’s part of the job,” I say, shrugging like it’s no big deal.

For a second, she just stares, something flickering in her gaze I can’t pin down. Finally, she turns back to the stove. “That’s… brave.”

It’s the closest thing to a compliment I’ve ever gotten from her. “Nah. Just what needed to be done.”

Silence falls between us as she cooks, but it's not uncomfortable. I lean my head back against the wall, closing my eyes. The faint sound of bread sizzling in butter makes my stomach rumble. Even through the smell of smoke seeping off my skin—that stench that never quite leaves even after multiple showers—I catch the mouthwatering scent of toasting sourdough and melting cheese.

"Don't fall asleep at my table." Her voice jerks me back to consciousness. When I open my eyes, she’s setting a plate in front of me. A perfectly golden grilled cheese cut diagonally. Steam curls up from the center where melted cheese threatens to spill out.

"This looks phenomenal." I bite in and damn near moan at the taste—crisp edges, fluffy center, tangy cheese. "Holy shit, Freckles. This is the best thing I've ever put in my mouth."

She sits across from me with her own plate, but she’s not eating, just watching me. “It’s just grilled cheese.”

“Nothing about this is ‘just’ anything.” I take another bite, savoring it. “Seriously, this bread? You made it from scratch?”

A faint pink tinges her cheeks. “Bread-making isn’t rocket science. Time does most of the work.”

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