Page 21 of Holiday Interference
He doesn’t either.
We just…pause.
A beat. A breath. A moment that stretches longer than it should.
I take the fork slowly, careful not to touch him again. Not because I don’t want to.
Because if I do, I’m going to want way more than I should.
He leans back against the counter, arms crossed now, watching me take my first bite like he’s cataloging every move.
And I let him look. Let the silence stretch just long enough to feel like foreplay.
The food is hot, but the tension is hotter.
And I’m starting to think I should’ve stayed under the covers—because this?
This feels far more dangerous than sharing a bed ever did.
He watches like he’s taking inventory—like he’s not sure he’s ever had someone at his kitchen counter before and he’s still trying to decide if he likes it.
Spoiler: he does.
Shifting, he leans back on his hands against the counter, his forearms flexed just enough to draw my eyes.
The stretch lifts his shirt slightly, revealing a sliver of abs, the faint trail of hair disappearing below the waistband of his flannel pants.
I swallow my bite and immediately forget how forks work.
“I’m starting to think you’ve done this before,” I say, twirling the tines in my eggs, pretending to be casual. “Bring home strays, serve them breakfast. It’s kind of a move.”
His head tilts, dark brows raised. “You think this is a move?”
“Are you saying it’s not?”
“Instant coffee, burnt toast, and eggs that are maybe one minute away from rubber? Noelle…” He huffs a soft laugh. “If this is me trying to impress you, I’m in trouble.”
“You’re not trying to impress me?” I lift my mug, eyes over the rim. “Shame. I was kind of enjoying it.”
His gaze sharpens. Not playful. Focused. Like he’s debating whether to volley or cut to the chase.
“Why do I get the feeling that athletes aren’t your type?”
Oh.
So we’re doing that.
“They’re not,” I say lightly, tapping my nail against the ceramic. “But you’re not exactly the typical jock.”
“How’s that?”
“You’re too quiet. Too…thoughtful. Guys like you usually talk more and listen less.”
His expression doesn’t shift much, but there’s a flicker—like I’ve surprised him. Maybe even hit something too close.
Good.
I slide the plate forward, appetite gone, skin buzzing instead. The heat between us isn’t playful anymore.
