Page 60 of The Holiday Grump
I shrugged. “Well… yes. I like to do spot checks. You don’t hold a lot of stock.”
“How much toilet paper do you need?”
I gave him an indignant look. “I feel safer seeing spare rolls.”
“Like these?” He opened a door of a corner cabinet, revealing a stack of toilet paper rolls.
I gave an assessing nod. “Much better.”
We both knew I’d been snooping.
“Breakfast?” He nodded at the stairs.
“Do you have coffee?”
“Sure.”
He led me to the kitchen, and I admired its high ceiling, paneled windows, and pendant lights glowing over a huge island. It was beautiful, but too pristine, like a showroom.
“This is so gorgeous! I feel like I should move in and spend my life baking pies.”
Fredrik gave me a look.
“I won’t,” I said quickly. “Just a feeling… inspired by your kitchen.”
I had an instant urge to add color, even a bowl of fruit or a loud mug, but somehow managed to keep that thought to myself.
I trailed one finger across the counter. Dust clung to my fingertip. “You don’t cook much, do you?”
“I live alone. What’s the point?”
“What do you mean?” I protested. “You can fry an egg. Make a small pizza. Cook a big batch of curry and freeze it.”
His brow furrowed as if I’d proposed he should churn his own butter.
“You want eggs?” He produced a carton of eggs, butter, cheese, and found bread from the freezer, lining them up on the kitchen island.
“Perfect! What do you normally have?”
“Coffee.”
“Nothing else?”
“I usually just pick up something on the way to work.” He stared at the ingredients as though they’d appeared by sorcery.
My disappointment over the store still simmered in the background, but it was mixing with gratitude. He’d saved me, again. He’d kept me warm all night, worried about my well-being. He deserved a proper, home-cooked breakfast. Moreover, his house deserved to be used. A kitchen like this should smell of butter and sugar and spices, not just exist, gathering dust.
“Can I make eggs?” I asked.
He sagged in visible relief, retreating from the counter. “Make whatever you want.”
“Are you sure? What if I… move things?”
He dropped onto a barstool, elbows on the counter, and groaned into his hands. “I’m sorry. I know I’ve been an asshole.”
I froze. “No. I overstepped, but don’t worry. I put everything back in the bookstore.”
His head lifted. “You put it all back?”
