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It’s just because she’s off-limits, I tell myself. That must be it.
My alarm goes off at seven, announcing the first day of classes, but I’ve already been up for an hour. Since I’m not the kind of person to lie in bed all morning despite how tired I am, I get up and hop in the shower. A much-needed cold one.
Once I’m showered and dressed in jeans and a hoodie, I make my way to the kitchen for a quick meal before heading out to my 9:00 a.m. class. I’m thinking of making myself some over-easy eggs and toast when the sight in my kitchen halts me in my steps.
I wasn’t prepared to wake up to Jasmine cooking in my kitchen.
She has sleep shorts on with an oversized T-shirt and white ankle socks. Her hair is in a messy bun atop her head, and her body is keeled over a drawer while she looks for what I’m assuming is a frying pan based on the uncooked French toast sticks on the plate next to her.
“It’s in the drawer to your left,” I speak up, clearing my throat while desperately trying not to stare at her perfect ass.
Jasmine doesn’t flinch from my presence as she straightens up, seeming comfortable in the apartment already. “Thanks.”
I slide up to the island, a waft of cinnamon and maple hitting me. “That smells good,” I say, rubbing a hand over my stomach. “I’m going to make eggs. Do you want some?
Jasmine turns, her eyes flicking to mine instantly. “Shit, I forgot to tell you that I’m allergic to eggs. You’re fine to eat them and have them in the house, but I can’t ingest them or I’ll be on my way to the ER. I have a few EpiPens in my bedside drawer and one in my purse at all times, in case you ever need to use it. And it’s blue to the sky, orange to the thigh.”
That has the hair on my arms standing at the image of me ever having to use it. I pray that never happens.
“Got it. You’ll never see eggs here again. Don’t worry,” I assure her.
“Elio,” she begins to protest, propping her hip against the counter.
“Don’t,” I cut her off.
She surprises me, a shy smile forming on her lips. This is new. “You don’t need to do that for me. I told you that you can eat them. It doesn’t hurt me.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not taking any chances where you’re concerned.” The words fall from my lips faster than I register them because I wouldn’t have said that if I was thinking straight.
Get it together, man.
Wanting to switch the topic, I ask, “How did you make the French toast sticks then?”
After putting the pan on the stove and flicking the heat on, she places a dollop of butter on the warming pan, the sizzling sound of melting butter filling the air.
“I used the almond milk in your fridge, ground some flaxseed, then added cinnamon and maple syrup to the mix. It’s a creation my halmeoni and I concocted. Maple is my favorite flavor. It’s my shot of choice in my coffee too,” she explains, her eyes lighting up more than I’ve ever seen. She really seems to love food with the way she’s beaming talking about it.
“Is that your grandma?”
“Yeah, I miss her a lot. She passed away three years ago,” she tells me, keeping her eyes on her food.
“I’m sorry, Jasmine.”
Before I can say anything, she adds, “I hope that was okay, me using your food. I’m going to get my own groceries today after class. I’ll pay you back for what I used.”
“No, you’re not,” my voice slices through the air.
“I’ll send you extra money each month, and don’t fight me on it, please? I need to contribute.”
I nod even though I don’t agree.
Jasmine places a few sticks of coated bread on the pan, the sizzling intensifying before it settles. “Would you like me to make you breakfast?” She thankfully changes the subject.
“Please,” I nearly beg, loving the way her lips twitch to fight a smile. She may say she doesn’t like me, but I think I can change that.
“Well, I made only enough for me, so you’re going to have to fend for yourself this morning. But maybe another time?”
“I’d like that. I enjoy cooking, so maybe I could cook dinners for us while you handle breakfast? That is when we’re both home.” I suggest.
