Page 14 of Echoes in the Storm
“Anything,” he calls back. “I’m not fussy.”
Yeah, only when it comes to how I arrange my kitchen. I roll my eyes at the thought and retrieve the half loaf of bread I have.
By the time my coffee is finished, I have a plate stacked with options for Mr “Not Fussy”. Jam, peanut butter, Vegemite, and Nutella.
He turns from where he’d been poised before the French doors, empty mug slung casually from his thumb.
“Hungry?” he teases.
“Thought I better cover all bases.” I make sure to hold my pyjama top close to my chest as I bend over and set the plate on the coffee table.
He points to the seven-piece setting in my dining room. “You have a dinner table, you know.”
“Exactly. It’s adinnertable. I never eat breakfast or lunch there.” Come to think of it, I hardly eat dinner there either, since it’s been just me.
Just me …
“You pick what you’d like first.” He takes a seat on the sofa closest to him.
I avert my gaze from his taut boxer-briefs. He could have at least wrangled some pants in the time it took me to make us food. Standing, his T-shirt may cover … certain things, but seated …
“Problem?”
Smug bastard knows there is. “You’re half dressed,” I say, swirling my fingertip in his direction.
“And you’re in your pyjamas still … braless, if I’m not mistaken.”Kill me now.He leans forward and snags a peanut butter slice, despite telling me to pick first. “So where’s the problem?”
I take the one remaining peanut butter and sit opposite. “Are you always this difficult?”
His eyes lose all trace of humour, the slight tilt to his lips diving into a downward curl. “Eat up, Cam.”
The fact he picks up on the shortened name those close to me use warms my chest a little. Only a handful of people call me Cam, one of who doesn’t deserve that privilege anymore.
“What time is the truck coming?” I ask between bites.
He shrugs, rolling the next slice—Vegemite—into a kind of Swiss roll and shoving it in like a piece of damn sushi.
“Might pay to find out,” I say.
“Thought, being a Saturday, the guy might not be at work yet, given he knocked off early yesterday, and all.”
“True. Try him after breakfast. Knowing Archie, he’ll have his work phone on him anyway.”
We sit in silence while he polishes off six slices to my two. His eyes track me as I make my final bites, his gaze unsettling in its intensity as he waits on me to finish and then collects the plate. I lean back on the sofa and eye his wide back as he carries the dish to the kitchen and repeats the same process as last night.
“You know,” I call out. “If you hang around for a few more meals, I might actually fill that damn thing enough to use it.”
He looks down at the open dishwasher, the plate held steady in his hand. “Do you not?”
“Nope.” I chuckle.
“Oh.” His brow furrows adorably as he works out what to do.
Keeping the plate in hand, he removes the knife I used to make the toast, and the dishes from last night. I kick my feet up as he searches the cupboards for the dishwashing liquid, loving this domesticated vision, even if it isn’t mine to have.
“Woman,” he growls. “Where the hell is your dish washing stuff?”
“With the other cleaning supplies in the bottom of the pantry.”