Stupid fire.
Stupid old house that had gone up like dry paper.
Had the ancient air conditioner we’d shoved into the window actually been too much for the wiring to handle? Was that what had finally done the place in?
Oh well. Hopefully, the insurance money for the rebuild would finally push our landlord Mr. Whitaker to invest in central air.
Too bad I wouldn’t get to enjoy it since I couldn’t exactly wait however long it took to reconstruct a hundred-year-old Victorian.
The thought made my stomach tighten.
Ugh, I didn’t want to think about that. I just wanted to crawl back under that luxurious blanket and ignore everything I needed to do to get my life back on track.
I should probably make sure Lucy knew, though. It might be bad if she tried to go home, saw the wreckage, and wondered if I’d died in the fire.
A chill moved through me at the image of how close I’dcome to being under the roof when it collapsed. I definitely wouldn’t have survived that.
After a quick stop in the upstairs bathroom where I splashed some water on my face and used one of Charlotte’s brushes to tame my hair into something socially acceptable, I made my way downstairs.
The clothes Theo had ordered for me should be here by now.
Using his phone last night to pick out some clothes—including underwear and bras—had been slightly mortifying.
Of course, he’d been nothing but respectful about it, handing me the phone and stepping away without hovering. But still…
The fact that he could just check in on that order and find out that I preferred my bras with a little extra padding to help perk my B-cups up a little was not something I wanted to think too much about.
Not that he would. He’d been married for three years. I was sure nothing about women’s underwear fazed him at this point.
The man had helped deliver a child, for goodness’ sake.
But yeah, I just didn’t need to think about the fact that my boss had bought me underwear last night.
When I stepped into the kitchen, Theo stood at the stove with his back to me, broad shoulders stretching the fabric of a plain white T-shirt. Morning light poured in through the windows, catching in his hair and outlining the steady line of his posture.
For a man who’d carried someone out of a burning house twelve hours earlier, he looked infuriatingly put together.
“Good morning,” he said, turning when he heard me.
His eyes did a quick sweep over me, taking in the oversized shirt and bare legs, but he recovered smoothly and gestured toward the skillet. “Feel like a breakfast burrito?”
“That would be amazing,” I said, crossing farther into the room. “I didn’t realize you could cook.”
“It’s just breakfast burritos.” He gave a low chuckle. “Don’t get your hopes up too high. There’s a reason Jessie preps those meals for you to cook during the week.”
“Well, I’m sure these burritos will be amazing,” I said, leaning against the counter.
He handed me a plate once everything was assembled, and we moved to the island. I took a bite.
And promptly made a moaning sound I instantly regretted.
“Oh my gosh. This is so good.”
His eyebrows lifted. “It’s eggs, cheese, and salsa.”
“No, really.” I took another bite to prove my point. “This is actually delicious.”
A faint flush crept up his neck, and he ducked his head like he wasn’t sure what to do with the compliment. “Glad it meets your very high burrito standards.”