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When he finally lifted his head, he said, “Now that just made my whole fucking day, sweetheart, so don’t tell me it’s better if I keep my distance.”
Dammit!I couldn’t tell him that, even though I knew I should.
My heart tripped at the sincerity in his sexy eyes. “Mine, too,” I murmured as I walked over to the coffee maker to brew myself a cup of coffee. “What are you doing at that stove?”
“Feeding you,” he said as he lifted the pan and slid something onto a plate.
I turned as I waited for my cup to fill and raised a brow. “You’re…cooking? I thought that wasn’t in your wheelhouse of skills.”
“Don’t get too excited,” he said as he lifted a bottle of syrup. “Pancakes are the only thing I can make that might be edible. Pancake Sunday was a tradition in our household growing up. My parents, Damian, Leo, and I made them ourselves every Sunday morning. Occasionally, if all three of her sons are around at the same time, we still do that with Mum. Unfortunately, it’s something we haven’t done in a long time. Sit,” he instructed, waving at the chairs on the island.
I added creamer and sugar to my coffee, still feeling stunned.
I turned and blinked as he put the plate in front of one of the seats.
Dylan Lancaster, billionaire, and co-CEO of one of the most powerful corporations in the world, was actually spending his time making pancakes…for me.
God, no guy in my past had ever made me anything, so it touched me to the point of tears that a man like Dylan had tried to cook for me instead of just ordering out.
I moved to the chair and sat my coffee beside the plate. “This is the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me,” I said, my heart squeezing inside my chest. “Thank you.”
“You better try them before you thank me,” he said drily. “They might not be edible.”
I didn’t give a damn if they tasted like sawdust. It didn’t change the thoughtfulness of the gesture.
I smiled when I saw how much syrup he’d added to the British pancakes, that looked more like crepes than pancakes to me.
Were they supposed to look that way?
I took a bite and savored the mouthful as I chewed and then swallowed. “They’re amazing,” I told him honestly. “Even better than our typical American pancakes.”
Even with a half-gallon of syrup, the edges were still a little crispy, and they weren’t soggy.
I watched as Dylan added lemon juice and sugar on his and folded them.
“That’s it?” I asked as he took a seat next to me. “No syrup on yours?”
“Never,” he answered adamantly. “We Brits use a variety of toppings, but rarely do we drench our pancakes in syrup. That’s an American tradition that I just don’t understand.”
I smiled as I continued to shovel the pancakes into my mouth.
When I finally took a break and reached for my coffee, I informed him, “I can’t imagine breakfast pancakes without syrup, and there’s something wrong with that whole lemon thing you have going on there.”
He grinned, filled his fork, and held it out to me. “Don’t criticize until you’ve tried it.”
I gave the utensil a dubious glance, but I opened my mouth and let him put the fork between my lips.
I chewed slowly and then swallowed, shaking my head at the same time. “Nope,” I decided. “It’s not inedible, but it’s missing something. The sugar is okay, but the lemon just doesn’t do it for me. I’ll stick to syrup. Do you want to try mine?”
“I’ll pass,” he answered hastily. “I guess I’m somewhat of a traditionalist when it comes to British pancakes. I’ve tried the American version. They’re extremely…soggy. If I wanted sticky toffee pudding, I would have ordered it.”
I laughed. “What is that?”
“You’ve never had it?” he asked, sounding appalled. “Who hasn’t tried sticky toffee pudding?”
“I love food, and I’ve never tried it,” I said. “I’d have to guess that some other Americans never have either.”
“We’ll wait until we get to England, and I’ll find you some of the best you’ll ever have. It’s a dessert made with a very moist sponge cake, dates, and a very sweet sauce. We usually top it with vanilla ice cream or custard,” he explained. “Absolutely worthy of one of your foodgasms.”
