Page 41 of Spark
“I only woke up a few minutes ago. I don’t even know what time it is,” I admit.
“It’s a little after ten a.m. I’m so glad you slept well. Have you eaten yet?”
“No,” I admit.
At his grunt of annoyance, I find myself rushing to explain. “I just came downstairs and was reading your note when you called.”
“I need to know you’re taking care of yourself, amore mio. Next time I’m on shift, I’ll meal prep your food, so you don’t need to think about cooking,” he says, sounding like he’s telling himself more than me.
“No, that’s okay,” I say quickly. “I can cook.”
“But you should be relaxing, not worrying about preparing meals. I’ll take care of it. Go pick something for breakfast.”
“Did you call for a reason?” I tentatively ask.
“I wanted to check that you were relaxing. Are you looking in the refrigerator?” he prompts me.
“Err,” I say, spinning around and making a beeline for the refrigerator. Opening the door, I gasp at the sight of the overflowing shelves.
“What looks good?” he asks.
“I don’t know, there’s so much food.”
“Do you like pancakes?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Do you know how to make pancake batter? The blueberries are so good, add some before you flip them and they still have a little crunch when you bite into them,” he says, his voice oddly gruff and sexy considering he’s talking about fruit.
“I don’t know how to make pancakes unless the batter comes out of a box,” I admit, craving them after he’s made them sound so good.
“I’ll talk you through how to make it.”
“Aren’t you at work?” I question.
“Yes. If we have a call-out, I’ll have to go, but our tasks are mainly maintenance and supply stuff if we’re not out fighting fires. Now get the mixing bowl from the cabinet above the sink.”
Following his instructions step-by-step, I make myself a tall stack of golden fluffy pancakes and drown them in what he called the “good” maple syrup. They taste amazing, and I moan appreciatively with every mouthful. By the time I’ve eaten as much as I can, the stack is still so big that I wrap the leftover pancakes in foil and put them in the refrigerator to reheat tomorrow.
“I should go and take a shower. I’m sticky from the syrup and covered in flour. I promise to clean the kitchen before, though,” I quickly add.
“Okay, amore mio. What are your plans for the rest of the day?” he asks.
“I’m not sure,” I confess.
“Remember, you’re supposed to be relaxing.”
“I remember,” I say softly.
“I’ll call you later, amore mio. I miss you.”
“I miss you too,” I admit.
“Speak soon, Verity.”
“Bye, Warrick.” When the call ends, I sigh sadly, placing the cell back down on top of his note. Without his voice in my ear, the house feels huge and silent and empty again. Padding back upstairs on tiptoes, I grab the cleanest-looking change of clothes from my bag and carry them into the bathroom, locking the door behind me as I turn on the shower and quickly undress.
This time, I refuse to let my hands linger between my thighs. I refuse to allow my eyes to fall closed or for thoughts of Warrick kissing me, or doing…more to me to fill my mind. Once I’m clean, I dry myself with the same towel I used the previous morning, then lay it out to dry again, unlocking the door and carrying my dirty things back into the bedroom.
