When I had almost reached her, she started backing away and screeched, “What are you doing?”
“You’re wearing my shirt,” I teased. A look of a panic rushed over her face when I reached for the hem of the t-shirt she was wearing.
“Umm… Yeah, I used your shower, too,” she replied as he grabbed the spatula off the counter, holding it tightly at her side.
When she shuffled her feet, my attention was drawn down to the floor, and I smiled when I saw that she was wearing a pair of my socks again. With my hands still clinging to her shirt, she popped my arm with the end of the spatula. “Back off jack!” she teased.
“Hey! I was just doing what I was told,” I laughed as I grabbed the spatula away from her, tossing it back on the counter. She looked around the room, searching for her next weapon of choice. Seeing that nothing was in reach, a faint scowl crept over her face when she said, “Are you going to behave yourself?”
“I’m not making any promises,” I told her playfully. I placed my hands on her hips and pulled her closer. Her frown quickly faded when I wrapped my arms around her, holding her tightly against my chest. I never expected to like it so much – having her here, in my kitchen, making a mess while she cooked me breakfast, treating my house like a home. But I did like it. I liked it more than I ever thought I could. She had me wanting things I’d never imagined I’d ever want or need. She had me wanting a future, a future with her and Wyatt. She watched me with those beautiful black eyes as I lowered my head and claimed her mouth. The kiss quickly became heated, and a slight whimper escaped her lips when I stepped forward, pressing her back against the stainless steel refrigerator door. Her arms wound around my neck, and just as we were starting to lose ourselves in the moment, the oven timer started ringing.
She quickly pulled away from me and rushed over to the stove. A wonderful aroma filled the air when she opened the oven door, making my mouth water. I watched her pull out the breakfast casserole made with sausage, eggs, and tons of cheese, and I couldn’t stop myself from stepping closer, trying to get a better look.
When she noticed me peering over her shoulder, she said, “It’s my mother’s recipe. I hope you like it.”
“Looks incredible.”
“Get yourself a plate. I’m starving,” she said as she grabbed the biscuits and bacon and placed them on the counter next to the casserole. While I fixed us both a plate, she poured us each a tall glass of orange juice, then joined me at the kitchen table.
“How often do you cook like this?” I asked, taking a large bite of casserole.
“A lot, I guess. I’m always trying to find a way to get Wyatt to eat his vegetables. He pretty much hates anything healthy, so I’ve had to get pretty creative,” she explained.
“You’re a good mother, Wren.”
“Sometimes I wonder,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.
“He’s an awesome kid, and it’s obvious that he’s crazy about you. You’ve gotta be doing something right.”
“Yeah, he is pretty amazing,” she said smiling. “I called to check on him earlier, and he couldn’t stop talking about the science museum my mother is taking him to today. He’d spent last night researching everything about it, and I’m sure he’ll drive my parents crazy with all his little facts.”
“I think his facts are cool,” I admitted. “And I’m sure they’ll enjoy spending the day with him.”
“Yeah… they always do. Don’t know what I would’ve done without all their help,” she explained.
“You see them often?” I asked, knowing I hadn’t seen them around over the past few weeks.
“Normally I do, but things have been pretty hectic lately.”
“You haven’t told them.”
“About Michael? No. I didn’t want to worry them. They have enough on their plate without me adding to it.”
I’d never known what it was like to have parents that gave a shit about me, so I was in no position to spout off advice to her about dealing with her folks. Deciding to leave it alone, I stood up and headed to the counter to get myself another helping. When I turned my back to Wren, I heard her take a deep breath. Unlike my chest, the scars on my back weren’t hidden behind tattoos. The scar tissue was too deep, and even the best tattoo artists wouldn’t attempt to cover them. I knew they looked gruesome, but they were a part of me. Nothing I could do to change it.
Before she had a chance to ask, I said, “It was my grandfather.” When I turned to face her, tears had already begun to fill her eyes. “He was just a mean old bastard.” I didn’t bother explaining what he’d done. She’d seen the scars, there was no doubt how they’d gotten there.
“Your grandfather did all that to you?” she asked in barely a whisper.