Ready For You by J. L. Berg Page B

roam my living room.
    “I was asleep,” I answered shortly, folding my arms over my chest.  
    “Alone?”
    “What? Yes—not that it’s any of your business.”  
    He barged past me and headed for the kitchen. Moving around the room like he owned it, he opened my dingy white fridge that had seen better days and started pulling out eggs, cheese, and bacon. From the cupboard, he picked out the bag of coffee I’d just bought from the specialty shop down the street, and he started a pot.  
    “What are you doing?” I asked, stunned by his display.
    “Making us breakfast. I’m starving.”
    “You came over here to make me breakfast?”
    “No, I came over here to take you to get a dog. The breakfast is just an added bonus.”
    I sat down in a chair at the kitchen table, tucking my feet underneath me, as I watched him. He turned on burners, and he began to scramble eggs. I’d never seen him cook before. That was something we’d talked about when we discussed moving in together and getting married—who would do the cooking and who would clean. We’d joked that we would live on macaroni and cheese and ramen for the rest of our lives and eat off of paper plates to keep from having to do dishes.  
    Obviously, he’d learned to cook more than those two dishes. Someone had taught him how to cook, or he’d learned on his own. I didn’t want to think about someone doing all the things I was supposed to do with him.  
    “I never agreed to a dog,” I said with a touch of annoyance in my voice.
    “No one ever gave you a choice. You moved into this house by yourself. You need some sort of protection.”
    “I don’t want to adopt Cujo,” I huffed.
    “I didn’t say you had to adopt a snarling, man-eating dog. But you need one that will be attentive and bark if it senses an intruder.”
    “And a security alarm won’t do that?” I challenged.
    “I like dogs better,” he answered plainly.
    “Then, why don’t you have one?”
    “My place is too small, and I’m a guy.” He shrugged.
    He’d never really mentioned his place, but considering how quickly he’d gotten over here the other night, I was assuming he lived close. How close, I didn’t know. The thought of him being just streets away at night sent my heart into double-time.  
    Garrett threw some bread in the toaster and continued to mix the eggs. He grabbed a handful of cheese and sprinkled it on top before turning off the burner. He glanced over at me, and his eyes lingered on my legs tucked neatly beneath me. My shorts were mostly covered by my sweatshirt, so it looked like I was bare underneath it. From the way his eyes heated, I didn’t think he’d actually taken the time to look at me until now.  
    “Is that my sweatshirt?”
    I looked down and immediately blushed. “No, it’s my sweatshirt.”
    “You mean, it’s a sweatshirt you stole and never gave back,” he corrected.  
    It was one of the few things I had taken with me when I left home. I had been leaving the life we planned, but I’d still wanted some pieces of him. So, I’d granted myself pictures, my necklace, and this sweatshirt. I hadn’t deserved more than that. I wore it all the time, and I’d completely forgotten I had it on when he came rushing in.  
    I needed to change the subject. “So, are we going to talk about last night?” I suddenly took a great interest in my fingernails. I couldn’t look at him. Instead, I stared at the chip in my purple nail polish while waiting for an answer.
    “Nope,” was all he said as he dumped the eggs equally on two plates.  
    After he buttered the toast, he brought everything over to the table and chose the seat across from me. The food he dropped in front of me smelled delicious, and my stomach growled in response.  
    “Okay.”  
    I didn’t really know where to take the conversation from there, so I chose silence—awkward, long silence. It seemed to be the thing we excelled at nowadays. We used to spend hours, days talking,