Page 121 of The Matchmaker
I bite my lip, enjoying this way too much. “You’re grumpy in the mornings.”
He just presses a button on the coffee machine and gives me a look. A whirring noise fills the kitchen along with a delicious smell and, when I don’t move, he pushes me toward a chair, kissing me soundly before taking up my position by the stove.
He is not a good cook.
And he does not know how to make pancakes.
But I indulge him, content to sit with my coffee and watch him move about half-naked as he googles recipes and burns the butter, and accidentally makes double the amount of batter because he added in too much flour and then too much milk trying to balance it out.
He doesn’t have maple syrup, but he does have a lemon and sugar and he even grudgingly lets me set the table when he’s distracted trying to make the perfect circle.
When he turns around with the first stack, he gives me an unhappy look and grabs the chair I’d placed opposite mine, dropping it with a bang right next to me. The plate and orange juice I’d set out for him are next, and when he finally sits down, we’re so close that our arms are touching.
“What?” he asks, when I just stare at him.
I somehow, against all odds, keep my smile to myself. “Nothing.”
I like grumpy morning Callum.
In fact, I think I could start every day with grumpy morning Callum.
“What’s the plan for today then?” he asks, gulping back his coffee.
I blow out a breath. “Damage control, I guess. Though hopefully not too much.” It had seemed like the worst thing in the world last night, but Callum’s right. The festival was mostly over, and we might be able to move the fireworks to tonight.
“Maybe we should…” Callum trails off, as he pops a forkful of pancake into his mouth. “Oh, God. Oh, this is not good. This is…” He swallows, grabbing both our plates. “Don’t eat that. We’ll have cereal.”
“I’m sure it’s fine!” I say, laughing as I try and take my food back.
“I’d like you to maintain any attraction you have toward me for a little while longer,” he says, dumping everything in the sink. “And whatever the hell I put in front of you is not going to help with that.” He opens a cabinet, scratching his abdomen with an absent hand. “I’ve got granola? And some fruit. Correction. I haveafruit.” He starts taking things out of the cupboards, narrating as he goes, but I’ve stopped listening, too distracted by the sight of him moving around the kitchen.
The thought of spending more mornings like this makes me unusually giddy. The thought of being domestic with him. Of knowing where he keeps his dishes and where he keeps his cups. Of what milk he likes to buy and how he takes his coffee or how burned he likes his toast.
I feel like I’ve spent the last few weeks snatching moments with him, each one exciting, maybe even a little confusing as we test and learn each other. But it’s only now that I realize we’re entering the next stage of what we have between us. The boring stage of chores and schedules and routine. Of meaningless texts and shared jokes and touching him whenever I want to.
And I can’t wait for it.
I rise, padding over to him on quick, silent feet, and wrap my arms around his stomach. His hands drop to mine, gripping me tightly as though I’ll pull away.
“Hey,” he says, amused, and I rest my forehead in the space between his shoulder blades, inhaling deeply. He smells like coffee and cotton and minty shower gel, and I want to bottle it up and spray it everywhere.
When I don’t move away, he turns to face me, careful not to break contact as he bundles me into a giant man hug that I now want to spend the rest of my life getting.
“You good?” he asks, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.
I nod into his chest, not able to answer otherwise because I don’t know how to explain just howgoodI am right now. How it’s the most good I’ve felt in a long time and how even better I feel that he seems to get it, not questioning me any further, and just holding me for as long as it takes for my stomach to rumble again and ruin the moment.
* * *
It takes more effort than it should to leave him. After I make another round of pancakes, Callum decides to make up for his lack of cooking skills with his many other talents and insists on showing me in detail how the shower works. He offers me his clothes when we’re done, but I decide to get back into my dress, and head straight home to change properly before dealing with everything else. I can already tell it’s going to be a long day, which means a sports bra and another cup of coffee. Maybe two.
He drives me to the top of my lane before kissing me long and deep. My face is flushed when I pull away and he gives the smuggest grin, to which I give him the rudest finger and let myself out, waiting for him to round the bend before I head up the driveway.
Susan’s car isn’t here, which is a relief. She’s a nice woman but a huge busybody, and I know showing up in a dress from the night before will fuel her for weeks. Though I suppose it wouldn’t be theworstgossip in the world. I always thought my reputation around here could use a little spicing up. And maybe…
I pause in front of the door, frowning as the noise from inside reaches me.
Plankton is barking. Plankton never barks. I mean, hedoes. If he’s startled or cornered or something. He gives an alertingwoofto a fox or a bird he doesn’t like the look of. But not this constant racket. Not like he’s…
