Page 120 of The Matchmaker
“Yeah. I thought they looked cool.”
I jab him in the ribs, and he grunts.
“You really are awake.”
“Uh-huh.”
“The first time I met you, you yelled at me because you weren’t getting enough sleep and now you’re wide awake.”
“I’m unpredictable like that.”
He sighs, but his gaze is warm when he opens his eyes. Warm if not still very sleepy. “Is the electricity back?”
“I think so.”
“Then I need coffee,” he rasps. “Lots and lots of coffee.”
“Anything else?”
A smug smile pulls at his lips even as he closes his eyes once more. “Thought I said I’d be the one makingyoubreakfast.”
“You did, didn’t you? Then I want French toast.”
“I’ve got no bread. How about eggs?”
“Eggs are gross.”
“Eggs are not gross. What the hell?” He peers up at me, pushing my hair back to see my face. “What other wrong opinions do you have?”
“They are slimy and gross,” I tell him. “Like mushrooms.”
He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Alright, what about pancakes? No visible eggs. Only hidden ones.”
“I like pancakes.”
“Hallelujah,” he mutters and then kisses me in a way that makes my toes curl, slow and lazy and deep. I melt against his chest, practically falling over him as he drags the moment out.
“I should get dressed,” I say, pulling away. “I need to check on things in the village.”
He frowns in disagreement, dragging a finger down my forehead and my nose before tracing my lips. “Or you can stay here.”
“You said we’d have pancakes.”
“Or we could stay— oh, come on.” He groans as I wriggle off him, bringing the sheet with me. I drop it to the floor as I grab my dress instead and head to the bathroom to freshen up. It feels silly to wear it again, but I figure I’ll change properly when I’m home.
When I return to the bedroom, Callum looks like he’s still in the middle of a ten-stage process of getting out of bed, something I find incredibly endearing, so I leave him to it and head downstairs to give him some peace. My stomach rumbles as I do, and I decide to make myself at home, putting plates on the table and searching through his cabinets to find the necessities to start on breakfast.
Eventually, I hear the floorboard creak and the shower turn on, and I’m figuring out how his stove works when he finally enters the kitchen, shirtless in a pair of loose navy jogging pants and looking so delectable that I immediately regret leaving his bed. I think he’s thinking the same thing too, heat filling his gaze as he takes in my dress and bare legs. But then he sees the spatula in my hand.
“What are you doing? Sit down.”
“I can make—”
“You’re not making me breakfast,” he says. “I will make you breakfast. What did you want? Pancakes, right?”
“You know how to make pancakes?”
“Do I know how to beat eggs, milk, and flour together? Yes.”
