Page 56 of Freak
It wasn’t that she thought she was unpleasant to look at, but that she wasn’t interested. She’d rarely saw a need to wonder if she looked good or otherwise. She looked like her, and that happened whether she gave herself a study in the mirror or not.
But today she thought she looked pretty, actually. Surprisingly, the wild rolling and twisting and such in bed had made her hair look soft and fluffy rather than like a nest of twigs. Her cheeks had sprouted roses from the abrasion of Mel’s beard, and her lips were swollen and ruddy from hundreds of hungry kisses. It looked a bit like blush and lipstick.
If she left her hair loose, it would drive her nuts in minutes. But today was the first day of the Harvest Festival, and she’d be making a little extra effort for that anyway. Maybe beforehand, while she was still at home getting her chores and work for the day finished, she could do something a little different. Something that would make fixing herself up later a little easier.
Opening a drawer in the sink vanity, she found an old stretchy headband in a pink paisley pattern. After smoothing her hair with a wide-toothed brush, she pulled the headband on and gave herself an estimating scan. Not really her style, but pretty. And it matched well enough with the dress she’d grabbed, too.
Okay. Time to get the morning chores done, get the animals situated, and get busy making breakfast for her man.
Her man.
Abigail let a quiet giggle slip out as she opened the bathroom door.
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“Hey.”
Abigail froze with the wooden spatula at her mouth like a microphone. She’d been lightly singing “Butterflies” along with Kacey Musgraves and had swung away from the stove to sing the chorus at Lilith, who was perched on a stool at the island, observing the tomfoolery with a squinty gaze.
Mel’s voice had filled a beat of quiet in the song, surprising her. She’d really expected him to sleep longer. Ideally, he would have come down to a ready breakfast and a laid table, not to a frumpy middle-aged woman bopping around the kitchen like a teenager.
Well, a moment of joy like the one he’d walked in on should never carry shame. She stood straight and turned to smile at him.
He was smiling, too. And leaning against the doorway to the middle of the house. And half dressed—in only his jeans (the top button open) and his striped shirt (all the buttons open). His bare chest peeked between the plackets.
And his feet were bare, too; somehow that was even more alluring than his beautiful chest.
Abigail had to swallow down some extra saliva. And clear her throat.
“Hey! You’re up earlier than I figured.”
“Smelled breakfast cookin,’” he answered. His smile sharpened. “Smelled almost good enough I didn’t mind wakin’ up alone.”
“Sorry. I can’t stay in bed once I wake up.”
Pushing off the doorjamb and stepping into the room, he said, “Wake me up next time, and I’ll give you a reason to stay in bed.”
He reached her, pulled the spatula from her hand and set it across the skillet. Then he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.
This kiss was another wholly new thing. Abigail understood instantly that it wasn’t an overture to something more, nor was it like the kisses they’d shared before last night, gentle and sweet things, with a period at the end. This was gentle and sweet, but it was deeper, too. It lingered. It wasn’t powered by a promise of something to come but by a memory of what had happened between them.
It was different because they, together, were different now.
“Hey,” he said again when he eased back and stared into her eyes.
“Hey,” she answered in a breath. “How d’you take your eggs?” She’d cooked for Mel many times, but never before had she made him breakfast. The thought effervesced through her heart.
“Over medium,” he said. “And you made biscuits and gravy, too.” His voice rumbled soft and low, the way he’d talked yesterday in bed. It turned their mundane exchange into foreplay and made Abigail flushed and fluttery.
Before her knees actually shook, she turned back to the stove. “I did. You like biscuits and gravy, I hope?”
He stepped up behind her, tucked his face to her neck, nestled under her hair, and turned his answer into kisses behind her ear. “’Course I do. Wouldn’t trust anybody who’d say no. You left your hair down this morning.”
And oh, she was glad she had. But he was making it nigh impossible to focus on her work, and his eggs were going to end up over hard if she didn’t get some room. “There’s fresh coffee—and would you set the table?”
