16. Holly
16
HOLLY
The smell of pancakes hits before anything else. It drifts through the air like a warm hug, wrapping around the edges of sleep and dragging me into consciousness. Not exactly the worst way to wake up. There’s a brief moment of confusion—because when did breakfast start cooking itself? Then the unmistakable sound of pans clattering in the kitchen makes everything click.
Ethan.
Sliding out of bed, I peek down the hall, half expecting to find the kitchen on fire. Instead, there he is, standing over the stove, completely absorbed in flipping pancakes, looking all relaxed in a gray hoodie, soft hair tousled like he just rolled out of bed, which, let’s be real, he probably did. We went at it late into the night and I wonder where he found the energy for this.
He looks perfect doing it as well. I swear, if anyone ever said "bad boys don't cook," they clearly haven’t met Mr. Carter. He’s focused, too—with the same intensity he takes to the ice.
The counter is an explosion of ingredients. Flour dusts the edge of the countertop, and there’s an entire stack of butter cubes next to a bottle of syrup that’s practically glowing with promise. Everything about this scene screams domestic bliss, which is weird. But the good kind of weird. Like, who knew brooding hockey stars made pancakes at 7:00 AM?
“You made breakfast?” Words slip out before I can stop them. It's a dumb question, but honestly, I’m floored.
Ethan glances over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly—just enough to make my heart do that annoying flutter thing. “What gave it away? The smell or the sight?”
Okay, Mr. Sass. I see you.
“Both,” I say, sliding into a chair at the table, pretending like my knees aren’t turning into jelly at the sight of him looking like some sort of domestic god. “You’re full of surprises today.”
He just shrugs, turning back to his pan. “Don’t get used to it. I don’t do carbs like this often.” His tone is all nonchalant, but there’s something softer in the way he moves. Something careful. Deliberate.
Oh, and did I mention he’s making pancakes ? The guy who has protein shakes for breakfast like it’s an Olympic event is making freaking pancakes. For me . I’m not gonna lie, it’s a bit of a power move, and yeah, it's working.
“Sit,” he says, gesturing toward the table. “Breakfast’s almost ready.”
“Wait, why are you making breakfast ?” I fold my arms, smirking. “Should I be concerned?”
He shoots me a grin, setting a stack of pancakes on the table. “I’m capable of more than just hockey and decorating trees, you know.”
“Really? Because I was beginning to think that was your whole thing.”
His smile doesn’t falter. “You’re hilarious.”
Grinning, I take a seat, watching him move with a surprising ease. It's almost like he does this all the time—except for the fact that I know he doesn’t. This is new. Ethan Carter does not wake up early, let alone cook. And yet, here we are.
He sets the plate down in front of me like it's no big deal. Pancakes, eggs, bacon—the whole nine yards. "Carb overload for you. Figured you’d appreciate it."
I’m not crying. You are.
“Thanks,” I say, flashing him a grin. “Didn’t peg you as a breakfast chef.” I mumble, still caught off guard by this whole scene. He’s never been a morning person, so seeing him up early—making breakfast , no less—feels like spotting Bigfoot.
As I pick up a fork, my eyes flick to the pancakes—perfectly golden, fluffy, the kind you see in food commercials. “These look ... suspiciously good. You didn’t, like, sneak out, buy these, and then make all that mess, did you?”
He rolls his eyes, pouring syrup over the stack. “I made them. From scratch.”
“Oh, so you’re a culinary genius now?”
“Genius, full stop.” He leans back against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. There’s a glint in his eyes that tells me he’s enjoying this way too much.
I take a bite, and the warmth of the pancakes melts in my mouth. “Okay, not bad,” I admit, pointing my fork at him. “Where did you learn to do this?”
He glances at the stack of pancakes like they hold some kind of memory. “David. He used to do everything around the house when we first started living together. I was useless in the kitchen. Could barely boil water without setting off the smoke alarm.”
I raise an eyebrow. “ Used to ?”
“Yeah.” Ethan pauses, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “One day, David cut his hand really bad—needed stitches. So, I had to take over the cooking. He gave me instructions from the couch, and well, it turned into a whole thing. He even made these little cookbooks for me.”
The air shifts. The mention of David is always heavy, like a shadow hanging over everything, but there’s something softer in Ethan’s voice today. Not the usual wall of steel.
“Sounds like he was a good teacher,” I say, my voice gentle, hoping he knows it’s okay to talk about him.
Ethan shrugs, but his eyes are distant now, like he’s watching the past play out in his mind. “He was. He had to be. I wasn’t exactly the easiest person to live with.”
“You? Difficult? Shocking.”
That earns me a smirk. “What about you? You’ve cooked twice and I haven’t even had the chance to enjoy it.”
I laugh, leaning back in my chair. “You’re lucky. You’d think with the confidence I jump into the kitchen I’d know my way around things, right? But no. I can’t cook to save my life.”
Ethan’s brow furrows. “But you?—”
“Tried to follow David’s recipe once and called my mom. Both my parents are chefs,” I explain, twirling my fork.
He raises an eyebrow, genuine surprise flickering in those blue eyes. “Your parents are chefs?”
“Yep.” I shove another piece of pancake into my mouth, hoping to drown the embarrassment. “World-famous chefs, multiple cookbooks, TV shows, the works. And their daughter can barely boil water.”
He chuckles—a low, warm sound that I could maybe get used to. “And here I thought you were a woman of many talents.”
“Oh, I’ve got talents,” I tease, leaning back in my chair. “Just none of them involve fire or sharp objects.”
He grins in an I agree kind of way. “Seeing what you can do, it’s obvious you just weren’t interested.”
“I failed miserably at my first trials, then I wanted to do something else. Something that had nothing to do with them.”
“And modeling was that thing?”
“Yep. Totally different world. And it worked. Nothing says rebellion like avoiding a kitchen entirely.”
Ethan chuckles, shaking his head. “So, you became a model because you couldn’t cook?”
“That’s the short version, yeah.”
His laughter fills the kitchen, a sound so rare it almost feels like I’ve caught a glimpse of something secret. “We make a great pair, then. You can’t cook, and I couldn’t either—until David fixed that.” He grabs his coffee mug, taking a sip like this is all just part of his morning routine. “I’m still not as good as he was, I just picked up what I could after, well...” His voice trails off, and for a moment, the mood shifts. Heavy. Thick.
There it is. That weight he carries, always lurking just beneath the surface. I want to reach out, say something to make it better, but what do you say?
Instead, I take a bite. “Well, David must’ve been a better teacher than my folks. They sure did their best.”
His lips twitch, like he’s fighting a smile. “He left me cookbooks. Didn’t want me to burn the kitchen down.”
“Wise man.” I offer a small smile, hoping it softens the moment. “I doubt those books will be much help to me though.”
A warmth settles between us, and I feel like I’m peeling back another layer of the Ethan Carter mystery. He’s letting me in. Slowly, carefully, but he’s letting me in. Our words flow easily, the teasing light, but there’s something deeper simmering underneath.
He moves to sit across from me, setting his phone down on the table with a sigh. “You know, I probably owe Lauren a thank you.”
“For what?”
“For bringing you here to stay with me.” His eyes meet mine, something soft behind the usual guarded expression. “You’ve been good for me.”
The words catch me off guard, my heart doing a little flip in my chest. It’s not like Ethan to get all emotional, so hearing him say that feels ... big.
“Well, I guess we should thank Jake, too, then,” I say with a grin. “If it weren’t for him being a total tool, I never would’ve left L.A.”
Ethan’s face hardens at the mention of Jake, his jaw tightening. “Don’t give him any credit. That guy doesn’t deserve it.”
There’s a possessive edge in his voice, and it sends a shiver down my spine. He really, really doesn’t like Jake. And honestly? I’m not mad about it.
“Hey, it’s fine,” I say, reaching across the table to touch his hand. “Jake’s in the past. I’ve got something much better now.”
His gaze softens, but before he can say anything, his phone buzzes, cutting through the moment. He glances at the screen, frowning. “Sorry. I’ve got to go.”
“Already?” Disappointment sinks in as I watch him grab his keys. “I thought we’d have more time this morning.”
He leans down, pressing a quick kiss to my lips. “I know. I’ve got something important to take care of. But I’ll be back later tonight.”
“Promise?”
He smirks. “Promise. And I’ve got plans for you later, so don’t be late.”
Another kiss—this one longer, lingering—and then he’s out the door, leaving the smell of pancakes and the warmth of his presence behind.
There’s something about a good breakfast that puts a spring in your step, and after the last couple of days with Ethan, it’s like I’ve got a sugar rush on top of it. Walking to Mia’s café seems like the best way to burn off all this energy before sitting down with Lauren for some much needed friend time. Plus, who wouldn’t want to stretch their legs on a crisp Chicago morning?
The city feels alive today, all bustling sidewalks and bright skies. It’s one of those perfect days where everything just seems to click. Maybe it’s the leftover thrill of what’s happening with Ethan—or maybe it’s the fact that the past few days have felt like turning a corner with him. He’s opened up more than I ever expected, and I’m seeing sides of him that I didn’t even know existed.
By the time Mia’s café comes into view, my phone is buzzing in my pocket. The name on the screen makes me groan—Mom. Of course, she’d call now. Right as I’m about to meet Lauren.
Answering the call, I wave to Lauren through the window and mouth, “It’s Mom,” as I sit down at the table. Lauren raises an eyebrow, leaning in as if to listen.
“Hey, Mom,” I say, bracing for whatever whirlwind she’s about to unleash. “How are you doing?”
“Holly, darling!” Her voice is way too cheerful. “Your father and I are still in San Sebastian. It’s gorgeous here. I’ve been working on new recipes, tanning on the beach, and trying out a few ... positions.”
Lauren’s eyes go wide as I choke on my own spit. “Mom. Please tell me you’re talking about yoga.”
“Oh no, sweetheart, nothing like that. You should’ve seen your father and I attempting the?—”
“Mom!” My voice shoots up an octave as I throw a hand over my face, trying to block out whatever horrifying image she’s painting. “Oversharing! So much oversharing.”
She laughs, completely oblivious. “Oh, you’re such a prude. Anyway, how’s life in Chicago? How’s that handsome housemate of yours? Is something going on there?”
Heat rushes to my cheeks as Lauren gives me a look that says, oh, now I’m listening . “Mom, seriously, I’m not talking about this right now. I’m meeting friends.”
“Fine, fine,” she sighs dramatically. “Call me back later, and we’ll talk about your ... situation .”
Sighing, I end the call, letting my forehead drop to the table in defeat. Lauren bursts into laughter. “Your mom is something else.”
“You have no idea,” I mutter, looking up with a dramatic sigh.
Lauren leans back, grinning. “So, let me guess—your situation is about a certain brooding hockey player?”
“Oh, come on. Like you don’t already know,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“Well, I haven’t seen much of you lately,” Lauren teases. “Guess you’ve been busy.”
I grin, shaking my head. “Yeah, well, you’ve got it easier. You have Mia.”
Lauren’s eyes dart to the counter where Mia, her sister, is currently fending off Liam Callahan, who’s leaning over with a grin that’s about as smooth as melted butter. “Oh yeah, super easy. You think Mia’s been easy since she turned fifteen and started getting hit on by every guy in Chicago?”
I laugh as Mia shoots a glare at her sister and stalks over to our table. “Are you two laughing at me?”
Lauren smirks. “Of course.”
Mia rolls her eyes but doesn’t look surprised. “Well, if you’re done gossiping about my tragic love life, can we talk about the fact that you have something going on with Ryan Connors?”
Lauren nearly chokes on her coffee. “Absolutely not. Ryan is a child in a man’s body.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.” Mia leans in, eyes narrowing with a knowing smile. “Deny it all you want, but I see the way he looks at you.”
Lauren groans, muttering something about needing a new sister while Mia laughs, enjoying every second of it. I watch them go back and forth, amusement tugging at the corners of my mouth, but my mind keeps wandering back to Ethan. The way he looked at me this morning. The way he kissed me, like he couldn’t get enough.
“So, Holly,” Mia says, pulling me out of my thoughts. “What about you? Anything happening with Mr. Ice King?”
Both sisters turn to me, eyes sharp with curiosity.
I bite my lip, feeling the blush creeping up my cheeks. “Maybe something’s happening.”
Lauren’s eyes light up. “Oh, spill. How serious are we talking?”
“Serious enough that I ... don’t really know what’s happening,” I admit with a sheepish grin.
Mia looks skeptical, her arms crossed. “Just be careful, okay? Ethan doesn’t exactly have a reputation for opening up to people.”
Lauren nods in agreement, though there’s more softness in her gaze. “Yeah. He’s not an easy one, Holly. But I get the sense that he’s trying. Just take it slow.”
“Slow,” I echo, though internally, things feel like they’re moving at lightning speed. Ethan’s been breaking down his walls, and every time he does, I fall a little harder. But can we keep this up? Can we really figure out how to make it work?
I’m not sure. But I’m willing to try.