Page 40 of Mine Forever
I turn over, my shoulder protesting like the little whiny ass it is.
Between the hammering all day and it just being fucked-up, I’m in misery.
I finally manage to fall asleep, only to be awakened by the sound of pounding rain and howling wind lashing against the thick, heavy sliding glass doors.
I glance at my phone to see it’s a little after six in the morning but looks like the dead of night.
The weather app shows the storm hasn’t quite made it to shore yet, meaning conditions on the island are going to get worse before they get better.
We still have power, but I don’t expect that to last much longer before the generator will have to kick in.
After using the bathroom, I step into the hallway, and the smells of coffee and breakfast fill my nostrils.
Eden is cooking?
My stomach rumbles, my ham and Swiss sandwich long gone. And as much as I should avoid her, a man’s got to eat.
I round the corner to find her standing at the stove, flipping an egg and singing along—terribly off-key—to Bob Marley.
Damn it all to hell, I do not want to be charmed by her or be reminded of days gone by.
But fuck if she doesn’t paint an entertaining picture.
I lean against the bar and watch, a smile twitching my lips. She’s so lost in the song, she doesn’t even know I’m there.
She’s been wound tight, trying to make her way in the event planning world in a place like New York City.
I can tell because I know what being wound tight about one’s career looks like and how it can suppress anything fun in your life.
Lightness spreads through my chest seeing her loosen up and the Eden I once knew starting to emerge.
My gaze slides from the blonde messy knot on top of her head down to the snug tank top that covers her breasts, to the flat belly that flares into curvy hips.
The curve of her hips is one of my favorite things about Eden. She’s all woman, not a stick figure. The flimsy pajama shorts cover her ass but just barely, stopping high on her thighs.
I shift the growing tightness in my pants and bite back a groan.
She turns around, her head bobbing, hips swinging—shit, she needs to stop doingthatright now—and freezes, her eyes wide as saucers when she sees me.
I smile. “Good morning.”
Her eyes dart away, and she reaches for a couple of slices ofbread before turning back and moving toward the toaster. “Morning.”
“Smells good. Looks like you remember your way around a kitchen.”
“Yeah. Want some coffee?”
“Sure, thanks.”
“Still take it light?”
I nod. She moves around my kitchen as though she’s cooked in it for years. Within moments, she sets a mug of steaming coffee in front of me. I sip and hum in approval.
It’s exactly how I like it.
“That’s good.”
The smile on her face makes her look like she did back in college. “Well, you have good coffee and a rocking coffee maker. Hard to screw it up.”
