Chapter 19
Tad
It’s pushing two in the morning, and my kitchen smells like bacon and batter.
Breezy showed up at my door around midnight, all New York confidence in a snow-dusted coat, and I barely got the lock turned before she was pressed against me. There was no time for food then; we barely made it to my bed.
But two hours later, her head was still on my chest when her stomach let out a growl loud enough to make both of us laugh.
“I didn’t really eat today. My little Autumn kept me busy,” she admitted, sheepish.
So here I am, standing over a skillet in nothing but boxer briefs, flipping bacon like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The last time you felt so domesticated—
I clear my throat and cut off that thought before it can grow legs and run me into the ground.
“Tell me, Hot Farmer Tad, do you always cook in your underwear?” Breezy asks, and the playful humor in her voice has me glancing over my shoulder to find her sitting on my kitchen island, legs swinging and looking too damn good.
Her hair is messy, and one of my flannels is the only thing that covers her body.
She’s holding a chipped coffee mug like it’s fine china, and an adorable little smile tugs at her lips as she watches me cook.
“Hot Farmer Tad?”
“Hey,” she says with a little shrug of her shoulders. “It’s what all the single ladies of Red Bridge call you.”
“Bullshit.”
“Oh, come on, Tad,” she retorts on a snort. “You and I both know it’s the truth. You’re a hot commodity around these parts. Hell, you’ve been referred to as Studly McSheepman in the newspaper.”
“Fuck me,” I mutter and run my free hand through my hair. “That’s worse than Hot Farmer Tad.”
Breezy laughs.
“And to answer your question, I only cook in my underwear when I’ve got company to impress.
” I flip the bacon and wince a little when the grease pops onto my bare stomach.
“By the way, welcome to late-night breakfast at Casa de Studly Sheepman. There are no Michelin stars, but I’ve got maple syrup and orange juice in the fridge,” I add with a wink. “It’s vintage, last Tuesday.”
She laughs again, and God, I’d put the sizzling bacon straight on my chest to hear that sound again.
I pour batter into the pan, focusing on keeping it round, though my eyes keep flicking back to her.
Because fuck, Breezy is beautiful. Sleek black hair falling loose, bare thighs peeking out from under my flannel, and toes curling against the counter like she’s been here a hundred times. Like she belongs here.
“You sure you know what you’re doing?” she asks with a cute grin kissing her lips. “I’ve never really painted you as a cooking kind of a guy.”
“Are you questioning my pancake skills?”
“Judging by the state of your stove…” Her gaze drops pointedly to the grease splatters. “I think it’s a fair question.”
I waggle the spatula. “Careful, woman. You mock the chef, you don’t get pancakes.”
“Oh no,” she says and dramatically moves her hand to her chest. “How will I survive without your slightly burned delicacies?”
“Breezy, baby, I’m a pro at pancakes. Trust the process.” I flip the pancake. Of course, it arcs too high, lands half off the pan, and Breezy covers her mouth to stifle a giggle.
“Pro status, huh?”
“I’m just getting warmed up.” I grin, toss the pancake in the trash, and pour another onto the skillet.
She watches me, smile softening, and after a beat, she says quietly, “I like this.”
“Like what?” I glance at her over my shoulder. “Burned pancakes?”
Her eyes flick to mine. “No. This.” She gestures at me, the stove, the ridiculous scene. “You making me food in your boxers at two in the morning.”
Something sharp pulls in my chest, but I play it off by shaking my ass at her. “Careful, Breeze. If you keep complimenting my ass, it might start sounding like you want to keep me and my sexy boxer briefs around for more than breakfast.”
And I punctuate that statement by slapping the spatula on my own ass.
Her laugh is quick and deflecting. “Don’t push it, Farm Daddy.”
“Farm Daddy?” I question through a groan. “If you tell me Eileen has been calling me that in the fucking newspaper, I swear I’ll croak right here.”
“Nah.” She grins mischievously. “That’s a Breezy trademark. I use it in my secret diary.” Her smile is equal parts teasing and sarcastic. “And of course, when I doodle Mrs. Farm Daddy all over my notebooks in study hall.”
“You’re such a smartass,” I tell her, and she just keeps on smiling.
“I might be a smartass, but I’m a very lovable smartass, you know?” she retorts with a wink. “Pretty sure that’s why you’re currently twerking and cooking for me in your boxers.”
“I did not twerk.”
“Whatever you say, Farm Daddy.”
She’s still smiling, but her eyes flicker with something she’s not saying. A thought neither of us wants to name.
Suddenly, my heart starts pounding so hard it’s like it wants to dive-bomb straight out of my chest. It’s a strange feeling. A confusing fucking feeling. It’s the kind of feeling that digs under your ribs and threatens to mean something.
I immediately shove it down.
And I slide a few pancakes and bacon onto a plate and walk over to the kitchen island to hand it to her. But before I can stop myself, the question just slides off my fucking tongue. “You made any decisions about Red Bridge?”
She tilts her head to the side. “Decisions?”
“Yeah.” I grab my coffee and take a sip, pretending the question doesn’t matter. “You’ve been here, what…two weeks now? Just wondering how long I get to feed you midnight pancakes before you run off back to the city.”
She looks at me for a long beat until she exhales a quiet laugh.
“Honestly? I don’t know. My life’s kind of…
a mess right now. Nothing feels steady enough to plan past tomorrow.
I’m still figuring out a new and exciting direction to go in.
” She shrugs and spears a bite of pancake.
“So, I guess I’ll stay until I figure out where I should go or where I’m supposed to be. Or until you run out of bacon.”
It’s a simple answer, but it lands harder than it should.
I tell myself it’s nothing. Just curiosity. Just conversation.
She’s free to leave whenever she wants. Hell, that’s the whole point of this. No strings. No expectations.
Still, there’s this weird heaviness in my chest that I can’t quite shake.
I ignore it and pour more batter into the skillet. “Guess I’d better stock up on bacon, then,” I say and flash a teasing smirk I don’t quite feel.
“That sounds like a good plan,” she says through a giggle and mouthful of pancakes. “By the way, Farm Daddy, midnight pancakes taste pretty dang good.”
“Farm Daddy.” I groan. “Don’t tell me that Breezy trademark is sticking.”
“I don’t know,” she singsongs. “It truly has a nice ring to it. Really rolls off the tongue, you know?”
A laugh jumps from my throat, and the heaviness that sits on my shoulders dissipates.
And when I turn to look at her and find her still sitting on my counter with her legs swinging adorably and her bare thighs peeking out from my oversized flannel shirt, I set the spatula down, flip off the stove, and cross the room to her.
I grip her thighs in my big hands and spread them wide so I can step between them.
“What about the pancakes?” she asks, searching my eyes curiously.
“I’m not hungry for pancakes,” I murmur and kiss her deeply. Her mouth tastes like maple syrup and bacon and something I shouldn’t want as much as I do.
Something I should be running far away from.
Something that feels a lot like the one thing I swore to myself I’d never do again.
But I’m powerless when she starts kissing me back and threads her fingers into my hair.
I’m completely entranced when she wraps her thighs around my waist and lets me guide her back into my bedroom.
And even though this is starting to feel less like distraction and more like pure, unfiltered trouble, I let myself drown in her anyway.