Page 96 of Break the Rule
She meows loudly, and Eden can’t help but smile. That smile falls off his face when he walks into the kitchen and takes in what can only be described as a disaster scene. The kitchen window above the sink is open while Charlie tries to direct billowing smoke off the stove towards it. The smoke is coming from a skillet filled with something very black and lumpy. On the floor is more of whatever was in the pan, though in various globular stages.
The kitchen table is covered in flour and egg shells, along with a bowl of something that is, judging by the hand written recipe on the table, supposed to be pancakes but looks more like play dough. If play dough were the texture of vomit and a frankly horrifying color.
“What the fuck is going on?”
Charlie’s head swivels, a look somewhere between surprise and horror crossing his face.
“You’re supposed to be sleeping.”
“You trying to burn the house down woke me up.”
“I wasn’t trying to burn the house down, I was—uh.”
Eden moves closer to the table, eyes roaming over the recipe. ‘Alec’s famous blueberry pancakes’is scribbled on the top in Charlie’s familiar loopy handwriting.
“You’re making breakfast? You never eat breakfast. Not unless Andrew or I cook.”
“I know,” Charlie says, waving more of the smoke towards the window with a plate. He sighs heavily, apparently giving up and carrying the pan of blackened pancakes to the sink and turning the water on. The pan sizzles as the black pancakes flop into the sink. “Don’t say anything.”
“I didn’t.”
“You werethinkingit.”
“I’m thinking a lot of things right now, Charlie.”
“Were any of them how life changingly handsome I look in the morning? Or how sweet and thoughtful I am to get up so early to make you breakfast in bed?” He stops, turning to look at the mess he’s made. “Err, or tried to. Definitely an A for effort in there somewhere.”
Eden worries his bottom lip between his teeth, taking in the picture Charlie makes. He’s wearing a pair of tie dye boxer briefs and an apron that saysif you see me cooking, runwhich was probably a gift from Andrew. There’s batter on his cheek and flour in his hair. He’s a fucking disaster, and apparently Eden is fucking into thirty-something-year old men who can’t fucking cook.
“This is a disaster,” Eden tells him, lowering Agnes to the floor. She sprints away, clearly not in the mood for whatever is happening.
“Yeah.” Charlie tugs at his hair, and Eden’s chest does some kind of weird flip-flopping thing as the gravity of the situation hits Eden. Sure, it smells like the fire department should be here, the mess is ridiculous, and none of it looks edible but Charlie—can’t cook for shit and never wakes up in the morning unless it’s for coffee or sex—got up to cook for Eden. No one but Addy has ever done that for him. People don’t do things like this for Eden. It feels almost boyfriend-like. Not that Charlie is his boyfriend. He has no idea what they are. Charlie’s attempted several times over the last week to try to talk about it, but Eden always changes the subject. He’s very good at distracting Charlie until he forgets he was trying to talk to Eden about things Eden doesn’t want to talk about.
“You didn’t need to cook for me. I already put out,” Eden teases.
“You don’t need to do that,” Charlie says in a tone more serious than Eden is used to hearing from him.
“Do what?” Eden scoffs, playing stupid.
“Cheapen everything. I wanted to do something nice for you.”
“I’m not?—”
“You were.”
“Fuck you,” Eden snaps automatically, guilt making him uneasy at the wounded puppy look on Charlie’s face. Eden sighs heavily. “I’m sorry. No one has ever…I’m not used to this.”
“Never had a boyfriend make you breakfast?”
“I’ve never had a boyfriend.”
“Until now,” Charlie grins, his smile falling when Eden doesn’t return it. “Eden.”
“Let me help you clean before I leave.”
“Eden.”
“Where are the paper towels?”
