Chapter 19
Kennedy
I woke to soft light spilling through Nick’s curtains, painting lazy stripes across the floor.
The bed was too warm, too comfortable—like I’d fallen asleep inside a secret.
His scent clung to the sheets and to me: something warm and musky, like skin and leather and a hint of whatever cologne he pretended not to wear.
For a second, I didn’t move. The silence felt rare. Sacred. No shouting fans, no whispers behind my back, no cameras flashing in my face. Just this: a quiet morning in his bed, my body sore in the best way, and the lingering imprint of his hands like ghostly fingerprints down my spine.
Eventually, I swung my legs over the edge, wincing when my toes hit the cold floor.
I padded toward his closet and rifled through until I found one of his shirts—soft, oversized, and still clinging to that impossible Nick Maddox smell.
I pulled it over my head and let it swallow me whole.
It shouldn’t have made me feel bold, but it did. It felt like armor.
By the time I reached the kitchen, a ridiculous idea had rooted itself in my brain: I was going to cook for him. I didn’t know where it came from—maybe from some foolish little part of me that wanted to play house. That wanted to give him something soft. Something normal.
I grabbed eggs, bread, pancake mix. Opened his spice cabinet and blinked at the sheer number of seasoning options. Was Nick secretly a chef when he wasn’t body-checking people into walls? I snorted and reached for the cinnamon. Just a little. Maybe a lot.
The toast was my first victim. I got distracted imagining him walking into the kitchen shirtless, sleep-tousled, smiling at me like I was something good, and the next thing I knew, the toaster was smoking.
“Oh, no no no—” I yanked it out with a plastic fork and stared at the blackened slice. “Okay. Fine. Sacrificial toast. That’s normal.”
Next up: eggs. I cracked one into the pan like a pro. It hit the skillet with a satisfying sizzle. And then… it just kept sizzling. Too fast. Too loud. Too rubbery. I flipped it and immediately regretted it.
“Yikes,” I muttered, nudging it to the back burner like a crime I didn’t want Nick to discover.
The pancakes went better. For a while. I’d probably added too much cinnamon, but they smelled like Christmas morning, so I counted it as a win. That was… until the second batch puffed up weirdly and started smoking again.
I waved at the smoke alarm with a dish towel and laughed under my breath. “Nailed it.”
This was either going to be the worst breakfast he’d ever had—or the best disaster we’d laugh about forever. Maybe both.
By the time I was done, the kitchen looked like a war zone and breakfast… well; it looked like it had lost. Badly.
The table was set, if you could call it that—burnt toast stacked like a warning sign, undercooked eggs trying their best to look edible, and pancakes so heavy on the cinnamon they practically screamed seasonal special. Honestly, they smelled more like potpourri than food.
But I set everything out, anyway. Plates arranged like I knew what I was doing. Forks and knives didn’t match, but they were clean. Napkins folded like I’d seen in a magazine once. The orange juice was a little too pulpy, but hey—Vitamin C was Vitamin C, right?
I stepped back, hands on my hips, and surveyed the spread like I was hosting a cooking show for people with no standards.
“Okay,” I muttered, chuckling to myself. “This is fine. This is totally fine.”
I had just poured a second glass of juice (with a little less pulp, thank God) when I heard footsteps behind me. I turned to see Nick walking in—barefoot, hair a mess, and somehow still managing to look like sin in sweatpants.
He stopped in the doorway, blinking at the disaster I’d tried to disguise as breakfast.
“What’s all this?” he asked, voice rough with sleep and laced with amusement.
I straightened up and tried to keep my face serious. “Your breakfast,” I said, proud and slightly mortified all at once.
He took a few steps forward, eyes sweeping across the chaos I’d lovingly plated. That familiar smirk curved his lips—the one that always made my stomach flip.
And just like that, it didn’t matter that nothing had turned out the way I’d planned.
Because the way he looked at me? Like the mess was perfect? That made all of it worth it.
Nick stepped closer, and—of course—my heart did that stupid little flip it always did whenever he was near. The way the morning light hit his bare chest made me pause like a deer in headlights. The hard lines of his abs stood out against sun-warmed skin..
He moved with the kind of lazy confidence that should’ve been illegal. Broad shoulders. Sharp abs. That smirk that made me want to both slap him and climb him.
“Good morning,” he said, leaning against the counter like this wasn’t the set of Nailed It: Kitchen Fire Edition.
Before I could say something—anything—the smoke alarm screamed to life above us, blaring like a pissed-off banshee. I jumped, nearly spilling the juice, and flailed for the nearest dish towel like I was about to wave it in surrender.
“Great timing!” I shouted over the noise, frantically fanning the alarm like my life depended on it.
Nick didn’t even flinch. Just looked up at it with that maddening smirk and crossed his arms over his chest. “Trying to kill me already?” he asked, voice smooth and totally unfazed.
I groaned and kept waving the towel, feeling like a complete idiot. “I swear it wasn’t part of the plan!”
Finally, the alarm gave a petulant beep and went quiet. I lowered the towel, catching my breath as I turned to face him—only to find him still watching me like I was the most entertaining thing he’d seen all week.
He arched a brow. “So… what exactly is this culinary masterpiece you’ve created?”
I looked at the table—burnt toast, overly cinnamon’d pancakes, eggs that had given up halfway through their journey—and tried to sound proud. “A breakfast fit for a king?”
“You’re lucky I’m not picky,” he said, stepping forward and eyeing the plate like it was a challenge.
With a dramatic shrug and a devil-may-care grin, he grabbed a plate and plopped down at the table like I hadn’t just nearly burned his apartment down. My heart thudded in my chest as he picked up a pancake, gave it a suspicious sniff… and took a bite.
I held my breath.
His eyebrows shot up—and for a second, I wasn’t sure if that meant he loved it or had just discovered a new level of suffering.
Then he swallowed, looked up at me, and said, “Tastes like Christmas threw a tantrum. I kind of like it.”
I burst out laughing. And just like that, my culinary disaster didn’t feel like a disaster at all.
He raised one brow and grinned. “I just didn’t know it was possible to pack this much cinnamon into one pancake.”
That earned a snort from me.
“But hey,” he added dramatically, taking another bite like a brave soldier, “it’s definitely the best terrible breakfast I’ve ever had.”
Laughter spilled out of me before I could stop it, warm and unguarded. I slid into the chair across from him, tucking my legs under the oversized shirt I’d stolen from his closet. “So you’re saying it’s bad.”
“No,” he said quickly, waving a hand like I’d deeply offended him, even while stuffing more pancake into his mouth. “It’s just… unique.”
I bit back another grin as I watched him. There was something oddly comforting about the whole thing—him half-naked, me in his clothes, the table cluttered with culinary crimes, and neither of us pretending to be anything other than exactly what we were in this moment.
It felt real. Domestic, even. Like we were playing house without any of the messy strings attached—no scandal, no cameras, no bet. Just… us.
My chest tightened in a way I didn’t expect as he looked up and caught my gaze. There was something softer in his eyes then, something that unraveled me a little. No smirk. No armor. Just warmth.
“You know,” he said around another bite, “this might just become our thing.”
“What? Serving up kitchen nightmares?”
He chuckled, wiping syrup off his chin with the back of his hand. “Exactly.”
The quiet between us didn’t feel awkward—it felt safe. Like we’d stepped out of the storm and into something honest, even if it came wrapped in burnt toast and cinnamon overload. For once, we weren’t navigating power plays or pretending not to care.
We were just figuring it out.
Together.
And somehow, that messy, cinnamon-drenched moment felt more perfect than anything else in the world.
Nick pushed his plate aside, eyes never leaving mine.
In one swift motion, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me onto his lap.
His grip was firm but gentle, fingers splayed across my waist as he settled me against him.
The sudden shift made my heart skip a beat, but the warmth of his body beneath me was an anchor.
"Dessert," he murmured, voice a low rumble that sent shivers down my spine.
I laughed softly, wrapping my arms around his neck. "Isn't it a bit early for dessert?"
His smirk was pure mischief. "Not for the kind I'm thinking of."
Before I could respond, he leaned in, capturing my lips with his. The kiss was deep and possessive, a claiming that left me breathless. His hands roamed beneath the shirt I wore—his shirt—fingertips tracing lazy patterns on my skin.
He stood abruptly, lifting me with him as if I weighed nothing. With a swift movement, he set me on the dining table. The cool surface pressed against the backs of my thighs as he stepped back, eyes dark with intent.
"I like the idea of you feeding me," he said, voice husky. "But I think I prefer this more."
He knelt before me, hands gliding up my legs and spreading them wide. The sight of him there—strong and commanding yet so utterly focused on me—made my breath hitch.
"I've been craving this," he murmured against my skin. His hands slid higher, pushing the hem of his jersey up to reveal more of me.