Six
Winter
Most of my family, including me, are not morning people, yet we work like a well-oiled machine in the kitchen. My years-long absence from home doesn’t seem to change our effectiveness at breakfast assembly.
Apron on, Mom stands on one side of the kitchen, flipping pancakes at the griddle.
Dad mans the stovetop where he meticulously flips the meats—yes, meats plural.
We grew up being big meat eaters, and big family breakfasts like this usually involved multiple types of meat. Today, it is sausage links and bacon.
I wipe the table down before the boys start their job. Then I lay out the cloth napkins at each seat.
Cypress is setting the table with plates, silverware, and glasses, while Dougie carries out the syrup and pitchers of juice.
With that done, I make plates for everyone the way they’ve always had them as the food finishes, knowing we are creatures of habit, and no one’s likes and dislikes have changed.
I make sure everyone’s breakfast is laid out perfectly. All except Saint’s plate. From all the times he and his mother joined us for breakfasts, I’m well acquainted with his likes and dislikes. With this in mind, I purposely fill his plate with things he doesn’t like.
If I can insert myself into meal-helping duties and only give him food he hates, between that and giving him the cold shoulder, maybe he’ll get over his desire to linger around my family home like a bad smell.
Maybe he’ll leave.
I don’t know where he’d go since his house is under construction, but this is my home, my family. If either of us is going to leave, it should be him.
That’s the thought that has me enacting my plan.
When I stack his pancakes, I make sure to tuck some chocolate chips between them so he won’t notice until it’s too late.
For the fruit, I avoid the strawberries and blueberries that I know he would enjoy, and instead, I only put chunks of honeydew.
Then, deciding to go all in on this plan, I skip the meat.
Happy with my choice to try to drive him out, I cackle to myself like some evil villain from a story. In reality, I know what I’m doing is petty, but I just don’t care.
Once everything is ready and we sit down in our seats, a disheveled Saint wanders into the room, and it’s clear he’s just dragged himself from bed. His chocolate waves are a mess, strands standing in all different directions. His hazel eyes barely open.
His tight T-shirt displays his muscles far too well, and those gray sweatpants make it hard to look away. Why are his thighs so muscular? Does he spend hours doing squats each day? Gah!
He rubs sleep from his eyes as he claims the same seat directly across the table from me.
“Thanks,” he mumbles when he sees the plate of food.
I smirk in anticipation of him biting into the pancakes, only to find the chocolate hidden inside.
He cuts a piece and stuffs it into his mouth. This is it. This is when he should gag, spit it out, or guffaw in disgust. Only I wait. And wait.
He continues to chew before I see his throat bob with a swallow. I wait for his reaction. For him to say something.
But he doesn’t. He cuts another piece of the pancake and raises it. He pauses briefly, making eye contact with me before putting it in his mouth.
He knows it was me. I’m sure he even knows it was intentional. But once finished chewing, instead of saying something, the smug jerk acts completely unaffected, with an infuriating smirk on his too handsome face.
Ugh. That face. I hate myself for even thinking of it as handsome.
But it is an unfortunate fact. He might be my mortal enemy, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s unfathomably attractive.
Drooling all over yourself, daydreaming dirty daydreams, that level of attractiveness.
I should know. It’s happened before. And it’s made me hate him even more.
If he were anyone other than Saint, I would be interested in him. But it is Saint, and I’m me. So here we are.
“What are your plans today?” Mom asks no one in particular.
Cypress answers first. “Dad and I are headed to the office after this. We have finances to go over.”
Dad nods his agreement.
Douglas replies, “I’m meeting some of my friends in town. We have plans.” He doesn’t elaborate; it almost seems as if he’s intentionally being vague. Mom doesn’t make a stink about the lack of information, but my big sister radar is buzzing. I feel like he’s up to something.
When everyone looks at me, I shrug. Personally, I thought I might brood in my room for the day. Maybe even take an extended nap and wake up to find out all of this was a twisted dream. I may call my agent again to see if he has had any luck with my publisher.
Mom doesn’t seem to understand my need for solitude and silence. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have suggested, “You can help Saint at the shop today.”
I’m already shaking my head, but she keeps going.
“They’re swamped right now with orders for the Christmas ornaments. I’m sure there’s something you can help with.”
She gives me a beaming smile, clearly thinking I’ll go along with her interfering between Saint and me, but that’s not going to happen.
“I’m sure Saint doesn’t need me in his hair. I’m not artistic at all. I’d just be in the way.” I feign disappointment just for my mother. Everyone else knows how bad an idea it would be to put Saint and me together in close proximity for a long time, especially without a buffer.
My mom looks like she’s about to speak, probably to convince me, but before she can, Saint says, “Actually, I have something that would be perfect for you to help with.”
I planned to dig my feet in and protest further, but Mom’s smile is like the sun as she says, “Great, it’s settled.”
Well, that is that. I guess I’m stuck with Saint.