Page 23 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

Peter grinned wickedly. “What is it?”

“Can we shower together?” I asked. “I would…I’ve always wanted to do that.”

“And then you’ll make breakfast for me?” Peter brushed a feather-like finger along my flesh from my sternum down to my belly button.

I shivered. “Yes. But if you do things like that, we may never make it back to the kitchen.”

Peter chuckled and lifted himself from my thighs. I grunted with displeasure, though I knew we had to get out of bed eventually.

“Then let’s get in the shower.” He held a hand out to me as he stood at the side of the bed.

“Fine,” I said, reaching out to take his hand.

“Don’t worry,” Peter said as he led me into his bathroom, his hand swatting my ass, “I’m a great back scrubber. You won’t be unhappy for long.”

“Who taught you to cook?” Peter asked, bringing his fork to his mouth. “This is delicious.”

I set my plate on the kitchen table across from him and slid into the chair. Freshly showered, both of us in jeans, t-shirts, and socks, it was nearly lunchtime before we had breakfast. However, we’d rewarmed the coffee and I’d made scrambled eggs on toast. Buttery, creamy, and soft set, seasoned merely with chives and salt and pepper, the eggs were a sunny yellow against the brown, crispy toasted slices of bread. Peter hadn’t been able to wait for me to sit before trying a bite.

“My maman,” I said. “Well, she taught me to cook many things. But—”

“Your mother?”

“Yes.” I nodded and picked up my fork and knife. “My mother taught me how to cook. My grandmother taught me how to cook things my mother knew nothing about.”

Peter smiled at me as he chewed.

“They were very different women from different cultures.” I shrugged, though I wasn’t remembering them with sadness; I was smiling.

“I wish I could have met them,” he said.

“I do, too,” I said.

After the last twenty-four hours we’d spent together, I realized that there wasn’t anything of Peter’s life from which I wanted to be shielded.

“Are the people in the pictures in the hallway your family?” I asked, bringing my first bite to my mouth.

“Mm,” Peter said, stuffing more of the eggs and toast into his mouth. “Yeah. I can tell you who everyone is after we eat.”

“I would like that.”

For a few minutes, we ate in silence and sipped our coffees, though it was not awkward, and each time our eyes connected, it was familiarity that passed between us. Peter’s home was quiet, only the sounds of our utensils on the plates and our coffee mugs being set on the table after each drink filling the air. Though, I found that the quiet was not the lonely quiet of my apartment. It was peaceful. The ballad of two lovers spending a moment in time together.

It was a song I’d never known I had been missing from the playlist of my life. A song I found I wanted to be played every moment of every day for the rest of my life.

“We’ve got to go to the grocery store later,” Peter groaned appreciatively as he stuffed the last bite from his plate into his mouth. “I was an idiot to take you out to eat when I have my own little chef right here.”

I chuckled, my cheeks warming from the compliment.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Other than buying groceries—super exciting stuff, obviously—what else would you like to do on your second day in the U.S.?” Peter asked and sat back in his chair as he brought his coffee to his lips.

I thought about that.

“I had so many ideas when I was studying to come to the U.S. for the first time, and—”

“You…studied?” Peter asked.