Page 46 of Living La Vida Mocha
“They’re pretty, aren’t they? I can’t wait to go back and work again with Diego. Some day.” He tipped his head toward the kitchen. “When you’re done admiring, come keep me company while I make us lunch.”
“Sure thing. Can I use the bathroom first?”
“Down the hall.”
There were three doors. One was too small, like a closet door, the other was half-cracked, and a quick peek told me it was his bedroom with an unmade bed and the curtains pulled open just enough to allow a sliver of sunlight in. As much as I wanted to explore, I didn’t and took to the other open door – belonging to a bathroom that clearly wasn’t anticipating company.
There were gobs of toothpaste in the sink, droplets of dried water on the mirror, and spilled contact lens solution which had dried to a white finish, something I personally was guilty of not immediately wiping up. His medicine chest was half open, and as I strained my head to steal a view without fully opening the door for fear it would creak loudly like my own, it wasn’t hard to miss the array of orange pill bottles in a variety of sizes on half of the shelves.
That was a lot of medications.
I shook my head and whispered, “No peeking.”
But my hand twitched and reached for the tiny mirror to pull it back for a better look. A slow squeak scratched out from the rusted hinge. What was he taking all the pills for?
A knock sounded against the door, and I stifled a scream.
“Oh my goodness, Cara, I just remembered what condition the bathroom is in, and I’m so sorry for the mess. Please don’t hold it against me.” His voice was full of shame.
“Don’t scare me like that.” My heart pounded as I shook my head, confident he was waiting for a response. “Nah, it’s fine. It looks like mine.”
“I highly doubt that.”
In haste, I sat on the toilet and did my business, totally feeling like I’d been caught with my hand in the proverbial cookie jar even though I hadn’t fully studied what was hiding in the cabinet, but there wasn’t time.
Flushing, I stood and washed my hands, stealing a glance at my face. Yep, I had guilt sprayed all over it, and I tipped my head from side to side while blinking rapidly to help dimmish the look. It failed.
Shoulders back, I opened the door, for some reason thinking Carter was still there, and readied myself for his questioning gaze or curious smirk. Instead, I padded down the hall to join him in the kitchen where he was chopping a green pepper.
He kept his head down. “I wasn’t expecting company. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” I took a seat at the counter, watching the way his hand effortlessly cut through the pepper like a skilled chef. “What can I help with?”
“I’m not making anything fancy, just a market omelette and toast, if that works for you?” He looked up through his long lashes but mostly kept his chin tucked down. “Unless you’d rather have Mini Wheats. I have a bowl, milk, and an hour to kill.” The words breezed out with a grin.
“You remember?” I leaned closer.
He set the knife down and rested both his palms on the counter. “How could I forget? Watching you drop one, maybe two, Mini Wheats at a time into the bowl of milk before you scooped them up with your spoon. You didn’t even drop the next ones in until you’d finished chewing.”
“Of all the things to remember about me.” I shook my head. There were other, much better memories he could’ve – and should’ve – clung to.
“One of your most endearing.” He tipped his head back down as he grabbed the knife to resume chopping, but I didn’t miss the pink colour gently tinting the outer limits of his beard. “Please tell me you still eat them, and that’s how you still consume them because I didn’t see a box of cereal in your shopping cart?”
“Of course. They get soggy otherwise.” I shifted in my seat and crossed my legs. “You know, my last boyfriend dumped me because of the way I ate my cereal. Said I was like a serial killer.”
“A cereal killer? As in c-e-r-e-a-l?” He burst out laughing and popped his head up, searching my eyes until he tickled my soul. “Guess it’s a good thing you’re not still together because that’s a Cara Trademark, don’t ever lose that.” The pepper consumed his attention once more. “Or ever stop being you because of some guy.”
“Oh, I’m not afraid to be me.”
“Good.” He slid the chopped greens into a bowl. “So yes to the market omelet?”
I craned my neck out and peered into the bowl. “I have no idea whata market omeletteis, but it sounds good.”
“It’s made with all the produce you’d find at a market – peppers, eggs, diced back bacon, and a sprinkling of Monterey jack cheese.”
“Sounds good. Sign me up.” I watched the muscles on his forearm tense and relax as he cubed slices of thick back bacon and added them to the bowl. “Can I make us a coffee?”
He shrugged. “Sure. Grinder’s beside the machine. Pods are in the basket underneath. Use the bag marked NB.”