Page 102 of Fraud
“Everyone needs a day off every once in a while.” He shrugged, flipping a pancake over in a pan.
He’d made good on his promise, running out to the store this morning and returning with more food than I could eat in a month.
“Says the man without a job. How are you paying for all of this by the way?” I asked, looking at the pile of grocery bags we had yet to unpack.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, adding to the stack of pancakes.
My mouth watered as I looked lovingly at the homemade blueberry masterpieces. I would have been fine with eating the pasta he’d brought over the night before, but he’d adamantly said no to that idea.
“You need sustenance,” he’d said, jumping up from the bed and throwing on a pair of jeans over his bare ass.
I’d thought he was insane at the time, but damn if I wasn’t happy now.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a home-cooked breakfast.
“Are you sure I can’t pay you for some of these groceries?” I asked, snatching a pancake from the large stack.
He grinned the instant he heard the involuntary groan erupt from inside me the moment my mouth met his pancakes.
“No. You will not be paying me. Now or ever. Got it?”
I nodded, my mouth full of food.
“I have a plan,” he said. “After today, I’m hitting the pavement hard. I’ll knock on doors, bang on windows, and stalk people into the parking lots after-hours if I have to. I’m getting a job.”
“I wouldn’t suggest the last part,” I said, reaching for another.
He slapped my hand away. Instead, he grabbed a plate from the cupboard and gave it to me. “If you are going to steal my pancakes, at least do it with a plate.”
“They’re really good,” I said, taking several and making a mountain of deliciousness.
“I know. My mom taught me well. Get the maple syrup out of the microwave. And the butter is over there.”
I did as instructed, along with getting a cup of coffee, and I happily munched on breakfast.
“What are you doing?”
I looked up at him from my little spot on the counter. “Eating?”
He laughed, watching me bent over my plate in between all the dirty dishes. “Yes, but why here? Why not in the living room or at that fancy dining room table you have?”
I shrugged. “Because you’re here.”
“And if I weren’t here,” he asked, “where would you eat?”
I finished my bite and grinned. “Well, if you weren’t here, I’d be at work, like a good girl. But, on a normal morning when I’m not at work, I eat my cereal—or any other meal for that matter—on the couch or the floor.”
“Not at the table?”
I shook my head. “It was my parents’. I haven’t touched it since they died.”
He turned off the stove and reached for a plate for himself. As he moved, I watched his muscles flex, loving that he’d chosen to cook bare-chested.
“Why keep it in the apartment then?” he asked, licking his fingers as a bit of syrup dripped from the jar.
“I don’t know honestly. I have an entire storage unit filled with their stuff. I guess the table was special though; mealtime was important to my mom. We always ate dinner together.”
“Us, too,” he replied.
