15. Lindee
LINDEE
A forceful clang disrupts me, my brain pinging for a signal like a broken sonar. Carefully, I open my eyes, waiting for the hamster on a wheel inside my head to get moving. It takes a moment, my surroundings slowly coming into view, an ease taking over as I recognize where I am.
My own bed.
I let out a huff, sinking back down into the sheets, trying to judge what time it is based on how the light is streaming through the blinds on my window.
Er…well, not streaming, since apparently I closed the blinds last night.
Which is a little weird, since I can’t remember the last time I did that.
I purposefully leave them at a very specific angle so that the morning sun hits my face, making it impossible for me to go back to sleep. Nature’s personal alarm clock.
Bang!
The reverberation echoes again, and my heart leaps. The confirmation that I didn’t make it up pricks my fight-or-flight reflexes. There’s someone in my house. Very specifically my kitchen, based on the sound of it.
I need to check it out. I know that. But I also know that I’m safe in this bed. My sheets will protect me.
Okay, no, they won’t. That doesn’t change the fact that they are warm, and cozy, and comfy, and not down there where a stranger is doing God knows what in my kitchen.
Maybe I should call the cops. No, no. I need to confirm that it’s a human before I do that. I’m not going to call Deputy Sheldon out here again because there is a raccoon rummaging through my trash. Once was bad enough.
Lindee, just go do it…
Right…here goes…
Throwing the blankets and sheets off of me, I spring out of bed, shove my glasses onto my face, and grab the first pair of sweats I can find.
They’re old, way too big, and have a hole that sits right over my left butt cheek, but they’ll do.
The oversized tee I slept in should cover the hole anyway.
Moreover, when this does just turn out to be the return of Ricky the Raccoon, he’s not going to care if I show off a little cheek.
I make a quick grab for the baseball bat I keep under the bed and shove my phone in my pocket, ready to charge ahead. Halfway down the stairs, I hear more clanging, although this time it’s followed by a softly muttered curse. One that I can barely hear, and only because I’m listening closely.
“Ohhh…ahhh…”
A sweet sizzle fills the air, replacing the curse with an unmistakable smell. One that makes me think of cold winter mornings, holidays, and family time around the kitchen table.
Pancakes.
I stop on the bottom step, my eyes landing on my so-called intruder. The one who is definitely not Ricky the Raccoon. Or an intruder, since I let him in yesterday. Most importantly of the things that he’s not, though, is dressed.
“It had to be you…” Brandt croons, swaying from side to side as he nudges the pancakes with a spatula. “It had to be you…”
I let out a giggle, my hand flying to my mouth to try and muffle the sound. I don’t want to give away my position just yet. I want to be able to enjoy this. Take it all in and commit it to memory.
After all, it’s not every day you wake up to find a super sexy man cooking pancakes in your kitchen in nothing but his skivvies.
At least he’s not all the way naked. Safety first.
“Sinatra, huh?” I ask, breaking the moment.
Brandt spins around, looking as suave and light on his feet as someone on stage in a Broadway play. A smile tugs at his lips as he sees me, turning his serenade to me, instead of griddling carbs.
I giggle again, this time not bothering to hide it. He looks so at ease and natural in my kitchen, like this is where he spends every morning making breakfast. Like these counters greet him in those skin-hugging boxer briefs on a daily basis.
“My dad sings it to my mom when he’s trying to get her to smile,” he answers, turning back to the griddle and flipping the pancakes. “In forty years, I’ve never seen it not work.”
“I love that. I can’t imagine my dad trying to sing to my mom. She’d just look at him like he’s lost his mind.”
“Oh, that’s a given,” he laughs. “But she smiles.” Turning to face me again, his brows turns downward, eyes narrowing in on the bat still in my hand. “It’s a little early for the batting cages…”
“Oh…” I huff out a wry laugh, embarrassment kicking in. I hold it up, then walk over to the couch and toss it on the cushions. “That was just in case you were Ricky the Raccoon and I needed to chase you off.”
“I prefer you getting me off than chasing me off,” he quips, winking.
Heat flushes my cheeks, traveling down my neck, past the deep V of my tee.
I don’t know why; it’s not like I’m embarrassed.
More like…flustered. There’s something about Brandt flirting with me that makes me all fluttery inside, leaving me feeling like a toddler who can’t sit still.
Wiggly and giggly as my mother would put it.
Wiggly and giggly does not a response make, however. Leaving me standing here, pink as a carnation, with zero comeback. Like, nothing. My brain is complete mush.
“Breakfast is almost ready,” Brandt says, picking up the slack from my lack of reply. He slides the pancakes onto two plates he must have pulled from the cupboard, cutting the heat to the stove. “I had planned on bringing this to you in bed, buuuuut…”
He looks me up and down, drinking me in, the weight of his eyes feeling good as it grazes my body.
Actually, everything about him is good right now.
Better than good. He looks way too sexy standing in my kitchen like that, and definitely too charming for first thing in the morning.
Whereas I probably look like the swamp thing.
“We could sit out on the patio,” I suggest. “Sit and watch the creek.”
“Works for me. Although, I should probably put on pants if that’s what we’re gonna do. Don’t want the neighbors talking.”
“Ha!” I scoff. The whole point of building this place where I did was so that I didn’t have neighbors. So that I could have my privacy. But we don’t need to get into that now. Because yes, pants are a good idea. “Yeah, wouldn’t want the wildlife to start any rumors.”
Brandt laughs, circling the kitchen island and stealing a kiss as he passes me. Again, it’s easy, natural. Like this is our every morning.
I don’t think I would mind this being our every morning…
Stop. I can’t think like that. This is not a forever kind of deal. It’s a…just for right now kind of deal. There is no future where Brandt and I can be together. And that’s fine. I’m enjoying this for what it is.
Thinking of enjoying, I spin around, wanting to enjoy watching him walk away and up the stairs before I carry the plates outside. Sure enough, the view is perfect.
Only…is that…
“Are those…” I continue to stare at his calves, making sure I have my chemistry correct. And I’ll be damned. “Do you have tattoos of the carbon skeletons of alpha and beta acids?”
Brandt stops on the first step, his heels hanging off the ledge, moving his feet up and down to flex his calves. “Sure do. Can’t make beer without them.”
He winks over his shoulder at me, then starts back up the stairs.
“And you weren’t going to tell me?” I call after him. “Especially after seeing mine?”
Brandt also has an alcoholic carbon skeleton tat. Well, tats. Plural. Holy shit. And here I thought I was the only one on this planet to be nerdy and weird enough to ink something like that on my body. Nope, apparently there are two of us.
“Figured you’d discover them eventually.”
Winking again, he disappears into the loft, leaving me even more gooey than before. We have matching tattoos. Well, not matchy matchy, but the same concept. That has to mean something. Right?
No…it can’t mean something. Other than you’re both chemistry nerds…
I need a distraction. One that is going to stop me from nerding out over matching tattoos. Food—that’s it. That’ll do the trick.
I busy myself with grabbing the syrup, utensils, and some napkins along with the plates full of pancakes. Making my way out to the patio, I refocus myself, not letting my mind go down that rabbit hole. I’m going to enjoy this morning for what it is. Fun.
A few minutes later, Brandt joins me out on the porch, dressed in his jeans and tee, but still barefoot. He looks relaxed and happy, his positive energy rolling off him in waves.
I hand him one of the plates, and he plops down into the matching Adirondack chair next to mine, ready to dig into his own breakfast. These things looks delicious—all light and fluffy, ready to be drowned in syrup.
“What are you…” I stop with the syrup jug in the air, distracted by Brandt. Err, well, by what he’s doing to his pancakes.
“What?” he asks, looking up at me.
“What are you doing?”
He continues, drilling a hole in the center of his stack, before taking a hunk of butter and depositing it in the middle. I’m gobsmacked, unable to fully wrap my head around the atrocity that I’m witnessing.
“This always happens…” he mutters, taking the syrup from me.
I continue to watch, unable to look away, like a rubbernecker on the highway after a major crash. Pouring the syrup on top of the butter, into the pancake volcano, Brandt sighs.
“This always happens?” I repeat. “So all the girls you sleep with think you’re a weirdo when they see this?”
I raise a brow, not quite sure I want an answer.
“You’re the first girl I’ve cooked pancakes for in…well, ever. I think. Unless my sisters count.”
Ever? He’s never cooked another girl breakfast? Wow…
“You’ve never made breakfast for any of your…ummmmm…girlfriends?”
Brandt shrugs. “I usually stick with scrambled eggs; it’s easier. Less mess, and it’s faster. And something everyone will eat. Other than the one gal who was a vegan. But now that I think about it, I don’t think she made it to breakfast.”