“Morning.” Cameron’s tone was as bright as sunlight. “I hope you like your eggs unrecognisable.”
Then I took stock of my kitchen. “Oh my God. Did a hurricane pass through here and somehow I missed it?” There were toast crumbs on the counter. Smears of butter. Drops of orange juice. A spatula covered in scrambled egg. Spots that looked like congealed fat.
I blinked. “What did you do?”
“Think of it as art,” Cameron said, deadpan. “In breakfast form.”
I arched a brow. “You’ve been here, what, not even a couple of days? And already you’ve redefined the word chaos.”
“Thank you.” Cameron grinned, sliding a plate towards me. “It’s a gift. And didn’t someone looking suspiciously like you say that a little chaos now and then was a good thing?”
“Then I guess you can have too much of a good thing,” I ground out. I glanced at the plate, and whatever else I’d been about to say died in my throat.
Cameron had done scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, grilled tomatoes, and toast.
“Wow. When you make breakfast, you really go all out, don’t you?” I picked up a fork and tried the eggs. Okay, they were overdone, but I wasn’t going to complain, not when Cameron had gone to so much effort. “Thank you.” To say anything else would have been churlish.
Cameron smiled. “Now eat it before it gets cold and the eggs solidify even more.”
We sat on the couch together, our plates balanced on cushions.
“Maybe I need to invest in a dining table,” I muttered between bites. “Nothing huge, perhaps one of those that opens out. Something big enough for two.”
“Well, you tested the sofa bed for guests, so let’s assume you finally bring a guy home. You can’t expect him to eat off his knees. Not exactly romantic, is it?”
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him romance was the last thing on my mind. Instead, I went back to eating my breakfast.
“Is this the moment when I tell you I’m far better at cooking pasta and sauces than I am at making breakfast?” Cameron murmured.
I let my mouth fall open. “I would never have guessed.”
Cameron narrowed his gaze. “And nowyou’remockingme.” Then he laughed. “Not that I blame you.” He glanced toward the counters. “I have some clearing up to do before I grab my shower.”
“We’llclear up,” I told him.
Cameron started to smile but it faltered halfway. “You’re saying that because you don’t think I can clear up as well as you can.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it again.
Busted.
The laughter had loosened something tight in my chest. This was the kind of easy, ordinary conversation I hadn’t realised I’d missed.
We talked about nothing: Cameron’s classes, the neighbour’s cat that had adopted the front step, and the guy who’d got on my train, drunk as a skunk, and serenaded all the passengers with a tortured rendition of ‘Ain’t No Sunshine’ until people started giving him money just to make him stop.
Cameron commented that as a marketing ploy, it was ingenious.
The banter was effortless, the kind of gentle teasing that made the flat—and myself—feel alive. I was even relaxed enough to smile.
“You know, this is almost peaceful.”
“Don’t jinx it.” Cameron stood, gesturing for my plate. “You working here today?”
“Trying to.” I grimaced. “Once the kitchen is back to its usual state.”
Except the mess had been worth it to grasp those minutes of laughter and calm.
Cameron