My Ellie (The Perfectly Paired #1)

Chapter 16

Colton

My room is still pitch black when my phone alarm blares from underneath my pillow. It’s strange to wake up before the sun comes trickling in through my blinds, but I find it surprisingly easy to hop out of bed.

I’m a task-oriented guy, and this morning I have plans.

I slide on my old man slippers —as Wyatt likes to call them—before pulling on some pajama pants and an oversized t shirt.

I feel like cooking breakfast in the nude, in a shared space, would get me put on some kind of list.

The coach house is silent, you could hear a pin drop as I tiptoe down the stairs. I feel like a kid sneaking to the fridge for a late-night snack.

Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I flick on the kitchen light. I fish my phone out of my pocket, typing a quick text to Wyatt as I head for the fridge.

We chatted on the phone yesterday until he started snoring into the mic, and I felt so much better for it. I think he knew I was feeling a little off, so he did most of the talking, but with every word he spoke, I felt a little more at ease.

Colton: Good evening, sunshine.

Wyatt: Why are you awake right now? I’m just finishing up a history paper, want to call ?

Colton: You know it.

I press the little green icon at the top of the screen to initiate the video call. Wyatt answers in less than a second, a confused but beaming smile on his face.

“Are you in the kitchen?” He asks as I prop the phone up on the island and pour myself a glass of OJ.

“I’m making breakfast.” I say in a half-whisper, “And everyone’s still sleeping so keep it down, will ya?” I adjust the volume on the phone before getting back to my task.

“Isn’t there a fancy cook to do all of that for you?” His eyes narrow a little but the smile on his face is still there.

“Chef doesn’t get here for another couple of hours, and I’m trying to surprise one of my friends with some good food.”

“Ahhh,” The suspicion vanishes from his features, “This friend wouldn’t happen to be a beautiful British babe, would she?”

“Don’t... refer to her as that please.” I rub my hands over my face as his laugh echoes through the phone speakers.

“I knew it, you’ve never cooked breakfast for me, prince charming .”

I open my mouth to object.

“And no, microwaving a Jimmy Dean’s breakfast sandwich doesn’t count.” He says before I can defend myself.

I hold my hands up in front of me, “Alright you caught me, and she may be beautiful and British, but she really is just a friend. Now that you’re here you might as well help me with this, what should I whip up?”

“You haven’t eaten breakfast with her before?”

“She eats super early, which is why I’m up before the birds. I’ve got some oatmeal here, some fruit on the counter,” I rifle through the contents of the cabinet in front of me.

He clicks his fingers, and I turn my attention to the screen as he points at the phone and whisper-shouts, “Beans on toast!” In the worst British accent I’ve ever heard.

“I’ve never made that before, I don’t know—”

“Trust me, I don’t think you have to be a culinary genius to figure it out. I’ll walk you through it, I follow all kinds of people on social media and I’ve seen my fair share of British cuisine.”

Wyatt is a patient teacher, even from halfway across the world, he manages to guide me through the process of heating the beans—which come in a can and smell a lot like ketchup. Thankfully, I’ve made toast on more than one occasion before, though I do somehow manage to burn a couple of slices as we get to talking about his upcoming high school prom.

“So, who are you planning on taking?” I ask as I butter the toast, putting the slightly browner pieces on my plate.

“My friends want to just go as a group, make a no-dates pact—don’t slice that toast, by the way.”

“You sure? And I just pour the beans on top of the entire slice? ”

“Yes, I think it’s meant to give rustic vibes,” I make a face, “I don’t make the rules, that’s how it’s meant to be served.”

“And is that what you want to do, just go with your friends?” I lift the now-steaming pot of beans from the stovetop and begin to pour them into Ellie’s plate.

“I mean, I know it would be fun to go with the guys, but...” He pauses and I flick my eyes to the phone, “I think I might want to ask Christina if she wants to go with me—as a friend, you know.”

Christina Russell is the girl my little brother has been secretly crushing on since he was seven years old. They’ve grown up together since kindergarten, but Wyatt has never taken the bull by the horns and asked her to go out on a date—despite my best encouragements.

I’m blinking at the phone, a stupid grin on my face, “Wyatt that’s—that’s great! Man, how are you going to ask her? We’ve got to color coordinate your outfits, Meemaw can make a real cute corsage—you ask her about that when you get home—”

“Colt, your beans.” He interrupts my stream of words, pointing to the forgotten pot in my hands.

“Oh, shit—” I’ve slightly overfilled Ellie’s plate, and by slightly, I mean there’s now bean sauce pooling on the counter. “I’ve got to clean this up, I’ll text you in a little bit—get on Pinterest or something and look at promposals , put some effort into it.” I point into the phone with a smile .

I’m so proud of him, and he hasn’t even asked her to be his date yet. Wyatt doesn’t tend to do much outside of his comfort-zone, so this is honestly something I never saw coming.

“I’ll get on that, enjoy your breakfast.” He lifts a hand up and waves into the camera.

“Love you, speak soon.” I smile as the call ends and my phone screen fades to black.

I pick up the overflowing plate and dump some of the beans onto the bean-less toast, deciding that Ellie can have that one because the toast looks decidedly less drowned . I scoop up the breakfast plates and place them in opposite spots on the enormous kitchen table, adding some cutlery and fancy-looking cloth napkins before returning to the counter.

Now, there’s just the issue of cleaning the spillage, which should be easy enough—except, the kitchen paper roll is empty, and I have no idea where the replacements are kept.

Am I really about to fall at the last hurdle?

I can’t leave this mess for Chef, and I don’t want to destroy one of the kitchen towels with the sauce, so I go for the only other viable option. I lift my ratty Texas Tech t-shirt over my head, there’s small holes in the armpits and an engine oil stain on the front, so a little bit of tomato juice won’t hurt.

I watch it soak up my mistake with surprising efficiency, swiping it over the counter as the sound of a creaking door makes my head shoot up .

Ellie’s standing just inside the back door of the coach house, the one that leads from the utility room to the small courtyard garden out back. She removes one of her earphones, her eyes darting from me to the plates of food on the table behind me.

“Hungry?” I ask, pushing my soiled shirt to the far end of the island.

She stares at me for a second with narrowed eyes, before she smiles, “I could eat.”

I gesture to the table behind me and she makes her way towards it, eyes still darting between me and the food. She’s wearing flowy running shorts and a navy-blue sports bra which does little to cover her sweat-slick skin.

“I think you need to invest in some shirts.” She says with a pointed look at my chest.

“I could say the same to you.” I say with a grin, forcing my eyes not to travel anywhere below her chin.

“I get hot when I run, what’s your excuse?” She digs her fork into her food, hacking away at the toast with her knife.

“Had to sacrifice my t-shirt so you wouldn’t see the mess I made while crafting our gourmet breakfast.”

Hey eyebrows shoot up just before she takes her first bite, humming in approval as her attention drifts back to her plate.

“Well, this is expertly crafted, really phenomenal.” I can’t tell if she’s joking, but if the heaping forkful she lifts into her mouth is any indication—I think she might be serious. Anything tastes good when you’re really hungry.

“Have you done this before, Mr. Brooks?”

“I can’t take all the credit, my brother Wyatt coached me through the process.” I nod to where my phone lies face down on the table.

“I see,” she says as she reaches for the phone. She leans down toward her plate, holding up a thumb before she snaps a selfie.

“I’ll send that to him,” I laugh as she hands me the phone.

“I hope you do!” She shoots back before digging back into her food. “You even made the ones without the little sausages in them, good choice.”

“You got something against weenies?” I ask, taking a tentative bite of my own beans. Unsurprisingly, they taste exactly how they smell—sweet and tomato-like. They’re not bad, but I definitely prefer Busch’s barbecue beans.

Man, I miss Texas.

“I’m a vegetarian.” She laughs in answer.

“Oh, no,” I lift my gaze to meet hers, “I’ve read about people like you.”

We spend the next twenty minutes or so chatting about everything and nothing at all, the conversation flows effortlessly, and I delight in her giggles whenever one of my stupid jokes lands.

She hands me her phone so we can exchange phone numbers—as friends, she reiterates when I make a Rory-esque comment about her being forward. She does warn me that she doesn’t spend a lot of time on her phone, isn’t real into social media or anything like that and has a daily screen time usage of less than twenty minutes a day. She apologizes for not thinking to give me her number earlier, but insists that I can call or text if I need anything, which I think is a nice gesture.

She asks me about Texas and how England compares, nothing too deep but I can tell she’s curious. I’m showing her a couple of photos of the ranch when she jolts, splaying her hands on the table.

“Oh my God, is that the time?” She lifts her head to look at the clock on the far side of the kitchen as I check the little window in the top right corner of my phone. Ellie stands quickly, gripping the back of the chair tightly. “I have to go, I—this was great, thank you.”

I’ve noticed that she tends to ramble a little when she’s anxious or uncomfortable, it’s one of her tells.

“It’s no problem, really,” She reaches down for the plate, eyes darting between me, the hallway and the clock as her feet decide exactly what it is she should do first. “I’ll take care of the dishes, go and take care of your stuff, don’t forget to breathe.” I say with a smile, attempting to reassure her with an even tone.

She takes a deep breath, but the worry is still etched into her features as she makes her way around the table. “Thank you, Colton, really. This was a wonderful breakfast.” She briefly places her hand on my shoulder as she passes.

“Same time tomorrow?” I ask just as she makes it to the hallway

She pauses with her hand on the door frame, and I watch the anxiety melt away from her face for a second as she gives me a small smile. “Same time tomorrow.” She nods, and then she’s gone.

I hear her jogging up the stairs a moment laterand I can’t help but beam at her empty plate.