Page 50 of Sparks Fly
Instead, Chelsea was using what was an incredible night (and morning) as a jab at Stella. And it fucking hurt.
The lack of response to Chelsea’s message made it clear everyone knew that was a low blow, and Stella didn’t even know how to respond to it, so she simply didn’t. Thank God she’d already made plans to visit her parents today, and Max had washed her clothes last night along with the sheets, so she didn’t have to go all the way back to Brooklyn to change.
Max had given her his room to get dressed, which waskind of funny, considering he’d seen every inch of her by now, but she appreciated the alone time as she pushed what Chelsea said out of her thoughts before making her way into the kitchen.
Max stood at the stove, wearing nothing except a pair of gray sweatpants, and Stella took a second to admire the long expanse of his back and the muscles in his shoulders. He seemed to be dancing to a song only he could hear, shimmying his hips this way and that while he twirled a spatula in his right hand.
Stella made her way back to the same barstool she’d sat on last night and inhaled deeply. Whatever he was cooking smelled sweet and delicious, and her stomach grumbled loud enough to make Max turn around.
“Good morning,” he said.
He stepped away from the stove and leaned over the counter, lips puckered, and Stella almost laughed at how silly he looked. She pressed a quick kiss to his lips before settling back in her seat.
“It’s almost good afternoon at this point,” she said.
Stella typically didn’t sleep in this late, even on the weekends. If she wasn’t up by at least nine a.m. she felt like she’d wasted the day, but today, getting to wake up slowly in Max’s arms and then giving her first blow job didn’t feel like a waste. Especially when she’d clearly been so successful. Although she wasn’t happy with Chelsea at the moment, she had to admit that she was very good at her job. Every tip and trick Chelsea offered in her “Blow the Whistle” tutorial had worked like a charm.
“Touché,” Max said, grinning. He twirled the spatulaaround in his hand again before turning his attention back to the stove. “So, what are your plans for today?”
“Nothing much,” Stella said. “I’m gonna go over to Harlem to visit my parents, and that’s about it.”
Max swiveled back around. “So you’re not going far?”
Stella wasn’t entirely sure if that was a question or not, but she said, “Nope,” just in case.
“Great, that means you can come back here this evening.”
“You want me to come back?”
Stella regretted the question as soon as it came out, but her mouth was working faster than her brain today.
Max’s brow wrinkled. “Yes, of course. Do you want to come back?”
In her mind, Stella immediately said, “Duh, of course I do!” But this time she gave herself a moment to think. Was seeing Max two nights in a row really the best idea? She was already getting attached, and spending more time with him would only make things more difficult when they inevitably fell apart.
On the other hand, Stella was in no rush to go back to her apartment with Chelsea right now, and having another night to figure out if she’d let Chelsea’s words slide or actually say something to her sounded perfect. Besides, if this thing with Max wasn’t going to last, shouldn’t she make the most of the time they did have together?
“I do,” Stella said finally. “Sorry, I don’t know why I said that. I guess I’m not used to someone wanting to see me two nights in a row.”
By now Max had turned back to the stove, taking whatever was in the pan out and sliding it onto a plate that he thenplaced in front of Stella. It was challah French toast that smelled heavenly and looked like the perfect ratio of soft to crispy.
“Wow, thank you,” Stella said.
Max nodded as he moved around the kitchen. He placed butter, a bottle of syrup, and a fork and knife in front of her.
“Don’t get excited,” he said. He moved to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of orange juice that Stella did not recall seeing in there last night. “I can’t cook much, but I got really good at making French toast when I was in college.”
“That’s oddly specific,” Stella said with a laugh. “Why French toast?”
“My mom makes the best French toast.” He was back at the stove but stood so he was standing in profile, glancing at her while he spoke. “And when I got to school I was a little homesick. It was hard because I purposely went to an HBCU to embrace my Black culture after being raised by white parents for most of my life, you know? But then here I was, surrounded by people who looked like me, and I was missing my white mom’s French toast.
He paused to take out his own French toast, and when he looked over at her again he said, “Eat.”
Stella rolled her eyes but obeyed. The moan that escaped her mouth was almost orgasmic.
Max flashed her a grin. “I know.”
He turned off the stove and kept moving as he continued. “Anyway, I eventually ended up calling her and begged her for the recipe. She laughed at me because it was so—and this is her word, not mine—basic. She said it was all about the bread. Of course, as a born-and-bred New Yorker, she said the onlyway I could do it right was if I got some challah from a New York bakery. So she sent me some. The rest is history.”
