Page 103 of Dream House
Maisy lifts and drops one shoulder. Then the oven’s ancient timer buzzes, and her eyes go Coke-bottle wide.
“They’re ready!” And she’s gone.
I can smell the cinnamon sweetness interwoven with the rich aroma of coffee, and I want to tell Stella that if she ever needs a kidney, she can have one of mine.
I get up and make a quick detour upstairs to change, take a piss, and brush my teeth in case there’s any chance I get to steal a kiss before breakfast.
As soon as I hit the kitchen, I can tell just by looking at Stella she’s nervous. She’s at the stove with a spatula and a cast iron skillet full of scrambled eggs, and her shoulders nearly reach her ears.
The kitchen’s bustling. Tyler sitting at the table with Nina, Livy making tea, Maisy at the table with a cinnamon-icing smilea laThe Joker.
“Morning,” I mumble, and Stella drops the spatula. Bits of egg ricochet in every direction. I’m quick and snatch it off the floor before she can, and she meets my eyes on the way up.
“Thank you,” she says, her gaze flitting to and from mine three times. If she’s not careful, she’s going to make herself dizzy. But the sight spurs my grin. At least she’s trying.
Before I hand her the spatula, I take it to the sink and give it a wash.
“Thank you,” she says again, this time more softly, just for me, but she turns back to her pan of eggs with legit speed.
I’d love to just lean against the counter and watch her. She has on that sexy-beyond-reason silk robe, and I know the pajamas I breached last night are what she has on underneath. Possessing this intimate knowledge must be like owning land in Scotland.
Call me Laird Lark.
But instead of ogling her, I turn to the cabinet and grab a mug. “Maisy says you’re not having any cinnamon rolls.” I keep my voice low, but my tone casual.
I glance over my shoulder in time to see her shrug. “I just made a dozen and you all like them.”
It’s shit like this that she does that both ticks me off and turns me on. Because who else makes cinnamon rolls for the whole household and doesn’t have any? Even though she likes them as much as we do?
I pour my coffee, add a splash of milk and a heaping spoonful of sugar. Stella hands me a plate piled with eggs and two cinnamon rolls.
The plate on the counter with two slices of buttered toast is clearly hers.
“Can I trade you a roll for a piece of toast?”
She glances up at me, her green eyes all suspicion. “You don’t want two rolls?”
My grin is pure wickedness. “Nah, I had a lot of sweet last night.”
Wide-eyed and blushing, Stella whips back around to her eggs. “S-Sure.”
I make the swap, giving her one of my cinnamon rolls, and sit down at the table before I do something stupid like bust out a hard-on.
And as I bite into the toast she slathered with salted butter, I can’t help but think this is the sweetest breakfast I’ve ever had.
ChapterEighteen
STELLA
I’m cleaningup the kitchen an hour later—after dropping off Maisy and jumping in the shower—when Tyler shuffles in from his bedroom.
I’m grateful to think about anything besides last night and the wolfish smiles Lark kept giving me this morning—and the way those smiles stirred my cup—so I give my brother a questioning stare. I know for a fact he didn’t sleep in his bedroom, but I guess he came back down early this morning.
Instead of wearing a guilty expression—or even a self-conscious one—Tyler stares right back.
And now I feel self-conscious.
And maybe a little guilty.
