Page 132 of Spicy Ever After
Other sewists do it. Maybe I could try.
Half a pan of cinnamon rolls sits on the stove. I smile again, picturing Beck unwrapping the store-bought package, popping the little construction paper tube, and baking these. Hours ago. I know it’s not a time-intensive breakfast, but he still did it at the crack of dawn.
Sweet man.
I serve myself two and join his dad at the table.
Mr. Olivier eyes me over his glasses and lifts the mug to his lips with a shaking hand. “Big night?”
I wince, remembering that the front door isn’t far from his bedroom. He probably heard us come in.
“My sister’s bachelorette party. Sorry if I woke you.”
I chance a peek at him. His scowling eyes crinkle at the edges in something close to a smile. They remind me of Beck’s sunshine footprints.
“No bother.”
It’s only when he grins back at me that I realize I did it first.
He makes a noise that I think is a chuckle. “Honestly, it reminded me of our younger days. Beckett’s mother was a bonafide lightweight.”
I’m about to tell him that there’s nothing light about my weight when I realize he’s talking about alcohol tolerance.
“I… um… have never been drunk before.”
His eye bug behind his glasses. “Is that so?”
I nod before biting into a cinnamon roll. It’s cold and the edges have gone a little stiff, but it’s still way tastier than my usual breakfast of cottage cheese and low-carb toast with peanut butter.
My boyfriend is the best.
When I come back from my mini-cinnamon-roll-fugue-state, Beck’s dad is watching me. If I had to name it, his look is amused.
“I don’t like the taste of alcohol.” I pick up where I left off, wrinkling my nose. “Apparently, Jello shots are the exception.”
His booming laugh nearly rattles the windows.
When his amusement recedes, Mr. Olivier nods slowly. “You’re just what he needs,” he mutters before draining his coffee mug. “Right now, especially.”
Then his chair scrapes over the kitchen floor and he pushes out of it. “Make yourself at home,” he says, before reaching for his walker. “I’ve gotta call to make, but I’ll do it outdoors. Takin’ in the view while I still got it.”
His movements are stilted, but when he makes it outside, he shuts the door behind him. Tones of a conversation bleed through the walls, but I can’t make out the words.
Still, it doesn’t sound particularly cheerful.
I mentally play back what I overheard on my way downstairs.
He can’t buy you out in less than three months.
How can you do this to him?
And then:
You’re just what he needs. Right now, especially.
Takin’ in the view while I still got it.
Other than telling me he has a lot on his plate right now, Beck hasn’t shared that the farm is in trouble.
