CHAPTER 23
Cole
“Morning,” I say, stepping into the kitchen with every intention of getting breakfast sorted for me and a coffee for Quinn. To my surprise, she’s already at work, barefoot, her hair piled into a knot, half the strands falling out.
It shouldn’t be attractive, but it is. Sunlight filters through the windows, catching on her silhouette as she flips a pancake.
“Morning.” She glances over her shoulder from the stovetop, giving me a small smile.
“Thought you were more of a coffee-for-breakfast kind of girl?” I say, trying not to stare as she moves around the kitchen with ease. She’s in a plain white tee and jeans that hug her in all the right places, and it takes everything in me not to close the space between us and kiss her.
Not that there’s space for that. The counter is cluttered with mixing bowls, cracked eggshells, a dusting of flour, and what appears to be the aftermath of a minor baking explosion.
“I usually am,” she says, blowing a piece of hair from her eye, “but I figured with all of this renovating, I should probably start eating solids.”
She’s not wrong. Between here and the bar, we’ve been at it from morning till night for the past three weeks. I move toward the sink to offer a hand, fill it with warm water, and reach for the mixing bowls scattered around the small kitchen.
“Oh, I’ll clean those. Don’t worry about it.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “You’re cooking. The least I can do is help.”
“No, really. It’s my mess. I should clean it up,” she insists.
“Try and stop me.” I slide a plate under her spatula before more batter drips. Our arms brush, and for a second, the touch lingers. She steps closer, reaching for the mixing bowl, but I lift it just out of reach, looking down and grinning.
“Not fair,” she says, narrowing her eyes and rising onto her tiptoes.
“Never said I’d play fair,” I murmur.
There’s a pause, and her pretty hazel eyes catch mine. Something between us shifts, like the whole room narrows to just this moment, just us.
She doesn’t move, but her breath hitches just enough to make my own catch. One word, one step closer, and I know I’d kiss her. The warmth of her body just inches away is maddening. Every nerve feels like it’s tuned to her, my breath shallow as I fight the pull.
And that’s when the fire alarm shrieks.
“Oh my God!” she yelps, rushing back to the stove. Smoke curls from the forgotten pan. She grabs it, yanks it off the heat, and tosses the blackened pancake into the sink, where it hisses against the water.
We stand there, wide-eyed and breathless, the kitchen filled with the smell of burnt batter. I clear my throat, gently nudging the mood back to solid ground and away from… whatever that was. “So, are you ready for today?” I ask, cranking the kitchen window open.
“Yep, I’m so ready. If I have to look at those stained carpets any longer, I think I might start ripping them up myself,” she says, back to flipping pancakes. “I’ve wanted to replace them since the day we moved in.”
“You say that like it wouldn’t end in disaster.”
“Excuse me, I am very capable of ripping things up. It’s just everything after that I struggle with.”
“Mhm. Like knowing what a stud finder is for?”
“Hey! That thing beeped at me once, and I still don’t know why.”
“Maybe because that’s its one job”, I joke, adding yet another mixing bowl to the sink.
She responds by flicking a bit of batter at me with the edge of her spatula, and it splatters across the front of my bare chest. I look down, then back up at her in mock offence. “You did not just attack me with pancake batter.”
She shrugs innocently. “You provoked me.”
Then, without a word, she reaches out and gently wipes the batter off my chest.
“You know,” she says, her voice softening just a touch. “I never pictured doing this with someone. The cooking, the renovating, the… I don’t know… just mornings like this.” She gestures around me at the almost clean kitchen.
I glance over. “Yeah?”
She nods, teeth trapping her bottom lip.
“It’s nice. Even if I suck at making pancakes.
Though, in my defence, that’s only because you distracted me.
” She waves a hand in my direction, and I catch the way her eyes flick to my chest before darting away.
A hint of pink creeps into the tips of her ears before she turns back to the pan.
“I like doing this with you.” Shit. Too much? Too soon? I brace myself for an awkward silence.
“Same,” she replies, looking over at me from the stove.
“So… pancakes round two?” I grab some maple syrup from the pantry.
“Fine. Let’s see if you can do better,” she says, handing me the spatula with a playful smirk, like she knows exactly what she’s doing.
“Challenge accepted.” I take it from her as if she’s just handed me the most important tool in the kitchen. “But just so we’re clear, if I burn them, it’s because I was distracted by you.”
“You really gonna flirt with me while cooking in my kitchen?” she adds, wiping flour off the bench.
“Depends. Is it working?”
She rolls her eyes. “Never”
I walk over to the stove, flip the first pancake with unnecessary flair, and watch it land almost perfectly. “Told you I was useful.”
She rolls her eyes again, but a smile forms on her lips, soft and unguarded and for a second, I stand there, forgetting all about our pancake war. I’m distracted by the way her face lights up, her stunning hazel eyes brightening.
And honestly? I wish every morning could feel this way.
They say you don’t really know someone until you live with them. I used to think that was just something people said to justify breaking up over minor issues, such as toothbrush habits or passive-aggressive fridge notes.
But living with Quinn already feels different. Not like I’ve stepped into someone else’s world, but like we’re figuring one out together.
Eventually, we sit down at the little table near the window, two mismatched plates stacked high and a bottle of maple syrup between us. Her foot brushes mine under the table, maybe by accident. Maybe not.
“Okay, fine,” she says, cutting into her pancake. “You win breakfast.”
“Didn’t realise it was a competition.” I raise a brow and pour some syrup over my pancakes.
“Everything’s a competition,” she shoots back, eyes dancing.
I laugh and slide the bottle a little closer to her side of the table. “Then I expect a trophy. Or at least a gold star.”
She snorts. “You get half a star for not burning the place down.”
“I’ll take it.”
I flick on Gilmore Girls and we eat in easy silence, plates clinking and the breeze from the window clearing any lingering smoke. Today already feels like a win; it’s as if the mess, the noise, and the chaos of fixing this place up doesn’t matter when we’re in it together.