“Darn it.”
I smile before I can stop myself.
The kitchen light is on. The morning outside is gray and wet, rain dripping from the edge of the porch roof. Derby stands at the stove in a black T-shirt and jeans, hair damp like he has already been outside. His feet are bare. His tattoos crawl down both arms, dark against tan skin. There is a pan in front of him, a bowl on the counter, flour dust on one forearm, and a plate stacked with things that might have once wanted to be pancakes.
They are failing.
Badly.
He flips one, and half of it folds over like a wounded animal.
“Son of a biscuit,” he says.
I lean against the doorway. “Is that censorship?”
He turns.
For one second, the kitchen goes quiet.
His eyes move over me before he catches himself.
Not slowly. Not disrespectfully.
Still enough to make my blood warm.
The memory of last night stands between us in broad daylight, wearing no shame at all.
“Morning,” he says.
His voice is rough.
Mine decides to be worse. “Morning.”
His gaze drops to my mouth.
Only for a second.
I feel it everywhere.
Then he looks back at the pan like breakfast has committed crimes that need investigation.
“You’re up early.”
“Something smelled like it was dying.”
“Pancakes.”
“Those are pancakes?”
“They’re trying.”
I step closer, stopping at the other side of the counter. “Are they winning?”
“No.”
I glance at the plate. “That one looks like Kentucky.”
He looks. “That was an accident.”