Chapter 1 #2
The kitchen is still kind of dark, but I could swear Drew’s cheeks turn pink, and I definitely don’t find that endearing. That wouldn’t be logical. “I didn’t know how it all worked,” he says quietly. “This is my first time doing something like this.”
“Making sourdough bread from scratch for more than thirty people before the sun comes up?”
Drew shifts on his feet, his body language screaming discomfort, and my traitorous heart gives another hard thud. “Coming on a family vacation.”
Oh.
Despite the fact that I was planning on going to dinner with him six months ago and had the overwhelming urge to launch myself into his arms when I saw him in the kitchen doorway just now, it occurs to me I don’t know anything about Drew at all except that he, Cam, and Tyler are close friends, and he and Cam have known each other since college.
I only met him a couple times when Tyler joined the team, and even though he’s been around more since Maddy started officially dating Cam last winter, the most I’ve talked to him was the night at the club and, well, that ended poorly.
The lawyer part of my brain that loves solving puzzles and figuring out how things work races a mile a minute with questions about what he means by coming on a family vacation.
Like, he’s never been on one of our family vacations?
Or never been on one at all? He’s in his early thirties so that seems unlikely, but…
Stop it, Caitlin.
It takes more effort than I would like to shut that line of thinking down.
To remember this is the guy who stood me up and didn’t even bother to call after I yanked tights over a belly that was twice its normal size while bleeding so profusely I had to go to the hospital for an iron infusion the next day.
We hate this guy.
I very deliberately avert my gaze from the hot, sourdough-baking football player and without a word turn back to my computer.
I go to take a sip of my coffee and let out a frustrated huff when I realize the glass is empty.
I’m definitely not caffeinated enough for whatever this day is going to bring, but Drew is standing between me and the espresso machine, and no fucking way am I sharing counter space with him right now.
Having him in the kitchen during what should be a quiet morning just for me is too much already.
Running my fingers over the track pad to wake my laptop up, I dive back into my work without a word, my fingers hitting the keys so aggressively the clacking shatters the early morning stillness.
The misspelled words appearing on the screen make my palms sweat, but when one is trying to make a point, one does not stop to correct typos.
I’m not sure what point I’m trying to make, exactly, but I think it’s something like I don’t care that you stood me up and I definitely didn’t sit practically naked on my couch and cry into a pint of ice cream while watching Jack Ryan kill terrorists and blow shit up.
I’m so focused on all the point making and furious typing, I don’t notice Drew moving until he slides into the chair next to me at the table.
My fingers don’t stop moving as I look over, but when I see him slide a full glass towards me containing what looks like an exact replica of the iced latte I finished earlier, my typing stutters to a halt. “What is that?”
Drew leans back in his chair and stretches his long legs out in front of him, taking a sip from his own coffee, and I definitely don’t notice the way his strong fingers wrap around the mug, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he brings it to his lips.
Nothing to see here.
“An iced latte.” He sets his mug on the table and gives me his full attention.
His eyes are steady on mine, the gold rim around his irises practically sparking in the early morning light.
“You looked like you were ready for another one. I would have asked if I could make you breakfast too, but it looks like you already ate,” he says, humor lacing his tone as he looks pointedly at the empty pint of ice cream on the table.
“I can make my own coffee,” I say flatly, ignoring his little quip about my food choices. I’m a grown fucking woman, and if I want to eat ice cream for breakfast, you damn well better believe I’m eating ice cream for breakfast. “Prefer it, actually.”
“I just bet you do,” Drew murmurs, giving me that look like he can see all of me, straight down to the part that can’t even relinquish the control necessary to let someone else make my damn coffee.
“But I was standing there anyway. Try it,” he says, gesturing to the glass.
“I think I did it the way you like. Three shots of espresso and a splash of vanilla syrup, right?”
I stare at him, wondering how this man who barely knows me knows my exact coffee order. I’m not even sure anyone who does know me knows my exact coffee order. I’m always the one who gets the coffee. “How do you know that?”
He shrugs. “A month or so ago when we all had brunch at Cam and Maddy’s house for his mom’s birthday, I saw you make it.”
I narrow my eyes at him, wondering who the fuck this guy is. “And you remembered.”
He looks at me for a few seconds, silence hanging between us. “I remember a lot of things about you, Catie.”
His words and the stupid nickname I’ve always hated but hate less when it’s coming from him have my throat tightening, an unexpected swell of emotion pushing up from my chest at the feeling that comes with being noticed.
Being seen. I’m the noticer. The seer. The caretaker and the problem solver.
It’s rare someone does it for me because I like to be needed but I have no idea how to need.
I don’t have to tell him that though.
He doesn’t deserve to know.
But I’m dying for more caffeine, so I pick up the glass, taking a sip of an iced latte so perfect I give a little happy hum as it hits my taste buds. I regret it immediately as Drew’s face explodes into a smile.
“So I did get it right.”
“It’s coffee,” I grumble, taking another sip. “You don’t deserve a medal for it or anything.”
“Oh on the contrary, Catie. I…”
His words are cut off by the buzz of a phone, and I watch as Drew digs his cell out of his pocket.
He glances at the screen, and whatever he sees there has his face shuttering, his jaw flexing, and his eyes going hard as he clicks off the screen and shoves the phone back into his pocket.
Without a word, he stands from the table and walks around the kitchen island, his shoulders a tight line as he peers into the oven, ostensibly to check the progress of his bread, but he stands there for long enough that I see it for what it actually is.
Avoidance.
My instincts scream at me to ask him what’s wrong. To fix it. But I shut it down, because Drew Ellicott isn’t my problem to fix.
Not today.
Not ever.