Chapter 10 Phoebe
PHOEBE
Ollie helps me carry the plates of eggs, bacon, and waffles to the table, where I already put out butter and syrup. He pours us each a mug of coffee and grabs the carton of orange juice from the fridge too.
“Do you want a glass?” he asks as he opens the cabinet to get one for himself.
“No, thanks,” I say.
“This looks delicious, Phoebe, thank you.” He takes his seat adjacent to me.
It makes more sense for us to sit at a corner of the six-seat table than across from each other with the expanse of the tabletop between us.
And if our knees bump occasionally or I feel the heat radiating off his body, so much the better.
“Thanks. We won’t get to do this often between my work and your travel schedule, so it’s nice to have the chance to do it now.”
He looks up from pouring syrup on his waffle. “How long will you be out from work?”
I’m using the pizza cutter to cut up my waffle since it’s easier than a knife and fork. “I need to talk to my boss Jack. It will take about a week for my wrist to heal, but I could work the register if they need me.”
“Will you get paid for your time off?”
I shrug. “Maybe? I don’t know. I need to talk to him. I was injured at work, but a rogue turkey outside isn’t something he could control. Since I’m only out a week or two at the most, I don’t know what I qualify for. I don’t really need the pay, so I’m not stressing. It’ll work out.”
I have a trust fund from my parents and grandparents, so money isn’t really a concern. I live within my means and own my condo, so I don’t have rent to worry about. Ollie knows I come from a wealthy-ish background.
“If you need anything, you’ll tell me, right?” His concerned brown eyes meet mine.
I do my best imitation of the shrugging woman emoji.
He sighs. “You won’t. What am I going to do with you, Phoebe?”
An easy question to answer. I’ve started a list based on scenes from my favorite steamy romance novels. I wonder if he wants it presented alphabetically or in order of preference?
Rather than answer, I take a bite of waffle and smile as coyly as I can with syrup dripping off my chin. Phoebe, you have zero game.
Ollie chuckles and grabs a napkin to gently wipe my chin. He could have kissed it off, but we’ll save fun with maple syrup for another morning—if I have my way.
His eyes widen when he takes a bite of his eggs. “Holy hell, Phoebs, what did you do to these eggs?”
I glance down at my plate in concern. “I cooked them like I always do. Being left-handed shouldn’t make a difference.”
“They’re incredible! Seriously, they’re the best I’ve ever had. Did you do something special?”
“How do you make scrambled eggs?”
“I don’t know. Crack some eggs, stir ’em up, dump ’em in a pan, and shuffle them around. The usual.”
He’s cute. Clueless. But cute.
“Okay, I’ll teach you how to cook the best scrambled eggs.
The main points are to whisk the eggs with a bit of milk with a real whisk until they’re uniform in color and foamy.
You want to add air to them. Melt some butter in your pan, and pour your egg mixture in, then reduce the heat.
Use your rubber spatula to scoot them around the pan.
Add the cheese toward the end. You can do it.
You already know how to cook scrambled eggs. We’re just tweaking it.”
“Yeah. Can you cook omelets? They’re my favorite. Ham and cheese with onions and peppers.”
“Of course! What else do you like?” I’ll make this man anything he wants. They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. I normally take another route, but I’m up to try anything.
“For breakfast? These waffles. Anytime. Pancakes and French toast too. For food in general, I like almost everything except seafood. Always happy with steak and potatoes. Lasagna.” He grins.
“I can cook too, Phoebe. Not as well as you, of course, but well enough to keep myself alive and reasonably happy. No way do I expect you to handle everything. We can share cooking. Cleaning. Bills. Everything. We’re roomies and friends. Partners.”
My heart flips when he says partners. I wish he meant it like “lovers,” not “buddies.”
“We’ll work it out,” I say as I take a sip of coffee. Yeah, I needed that.
“What do you want to do today?” he asks.
“Do you know if they have board games?” I ask. “I haven’t checked.”
He nods as he chews his last bite of waffle. “They do. I know they have Aggravation. That’s the King-family-favorite board game.” Rising, he gathers his plates and takes them to the sink before coming back for mine.
“Aggravation? I’ve never heard of it. What is it?”
“It’s a marble board game. You move marbles around and send your opponent back to the start. It’s fun. You’ll like it. I need to take a shower first, but after that, we can play games, watch movies. Maybe they have a puzzle we can put together?”
Ollie is too pure for this world. Bless his wholesome heart. We’re alone and snowed in. We could spend the day fucking if we weren’t “just friends.” What a wasted opportunity.
“I should shower too,” I say. “Will you help me rewrap my wrist?”
He nods. “Of course, record me as I unwrap it so we can redo it in reverse. I’ve done stuff like this before. It’ll be fine. Do you need help washing your hair?”
Wha…? “Like shower together?”
He blushes deep red. “Uh…um…I figured in the kitchen sink?”
I giggle. “Oh, yeah, that makes sense. I should be okay to do it myself. Only has to be clean. I’m not worrying about styling or anything.”
“Do you want to go first?”
“You don’t mind?”
He shakes his head. “Ladies first.”
I record the unwrapping of my wrist on my phone. It twinges a little to wiggle my fingers or flex my wrist, but it’s not bad.
I grab a T-shirt and boy shorts and go into the bathroom. No way am I coordinated enough to put on a bra yet, so I’ll layer a sweatshirt again. Not that Ollie cares.
I strip down as the shower heats up, but I realize at the last minute I didn’t bring in any of my own toiletries. Shit. Shelby’s stuff is in here, so I’ll use that. I grab a washcloth and towels from the closet, then step into the shower and close the door.
A quarter hour later, I’m squeaky clean and stepping out of the shower.
I dry off as much as I can before pulling on my boy short panties and another one of Ollie’s T-shirts from his college hockey days.
I hope he doesn’t mind me stealing his clothes—they’re easier to manage right now, and they’re so soft.
Walking into the bedroom, I go to the rocker where my yoga pants are and bend forward to towel dry my hair.
The door opens behind me, and I hear Ollie’s gasp.
I straighten and spin around so fast I feel dizzy.
I’m lightheaded. It could be caused by the blood draining from my head.
But it’s not. It’s from Ollie’s expression, which is hot with desire.