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The longer it goes on, the more I worry that I’ll either never work up the courage to ask and things will slowly trickle to a halt, or I’m going to combust and throw an embarrassing tantrum before climbing his perfectly sculpted muscles and risk being rejected.
Neither are good options. I need to have a conversation with him…at some point.
FORTY-ONE
BRYNN
Thumb swiping across my tablet, I scroll through the list and mark off the white chocolate and raspberry shortbread rocky roads as completed, then check how many miso brownies portions I need to make a start on next.
My gaze flicks to the hallway leading to the bedrooms. Rosy’s going to come out soon. Nate’s already left for work and said she was awake. When she does, she’ll come over here, slip onto the stool—always the same one—on the other side of the kitchen island, and I’ll make her breakfast.
I glance down, noting the tablet screen has blackened after I took too long watching, waiting. Unlocking it again, I check the brownie quantities and grab the ingredients I need.
I’m just sliding the baking trays full of brownie batter into the oven when a door finally snicks open, and Rosy appears a moment later.
The soft lilac knitted V-neck jumper hangs loosely on her, and her hair is pulled up into a messy bun. Tendrils frame her face in a way that has a lump catching in my throat.
A furry bundle in her arms wiggles, emitting loud purrs that has Rosy chuckling quietly.
“Okay, you little cutie. No more cuddles, I get it,” she sweet talks him, places a kiss on his head, then deposits him on the ground by the coffee table. Moshi immediately pounces on a feathered toy. It’s one of the many toys that seem to be appearing everywhere. I’m fairly certain it isn’t Rosy purchasing them either.
“Good morning,” I greet, not enquiring into her sleep quality.
I stopped asking recently when I realised she kept putting on a false smile and pretending she was doing better. We all know she still gets nightmares. And I don’t like that she lies about it to me. It’s somewhat reassuring to know she’s terrible at lying, but it’s why she’s doing it that I can’t figure out. Not that I’ve got the courage to ask either, worried she’ll shut me down, or worse, push me away completely.
“Morning.” She smiles back, hopping onto her stool.
Her head tilts to the side, watching me, and my neck heats at her inspective attention.
“Never seen you with headphones in when you work. What’re you listening to?”
I reach up, touching the small earpiece. I completely forgot that I had it playing low this morning. Pulling one out, I offer it to her, a little insecurity slipping in.
She takes it, placing it in her ear, then I pull my phone out and turn the volume up a bit. I watch for her reaction.
“You like house?” Her brows rise as she asks, her voice unsurprisingly…surprised.
I’m aware that when people look at me, and the fact I bake for a living, they don’t expect me to listen to heavy drum and bass, and house music.
“I do,” I agree, ignoring the way the flush reaches up my neck to my ears. “I like how you can feel the beat vibrate. How it builds up and then crashes through you. It’s great to work to and keeps me motivated and moving.”
She nods, and for a few seconds we stare at each other as we listen to the rest of the song together, her fingers twitching on the island worktop.
Once the song ends, Rosy removes the ear bud and hands it over to me. I pull out mine and turn them off.
“What would you like for breakfast? Sweet? Savoury?” I ask, marking off the miso brownies from the list.
“Anything savoury, please?” she asks, cupping her chin and resting her elbow on the surface.
I nod, turning and pulling out a variety of vegetables and some eggs from the fridge. Rosy watches as I slice the white cabbage. Even though she’s done it almost every day for weeks, the feel of her gaze whilst I’m making something for her still has tingles slinking through my body.
Once the rest of the vegetables are chopped, I slide them into a frying pan on the stove and open one of the top cupboards to grab a mug for her.
“Do you find me attractive?”
Thrown at the question, I spin, and a sharp pain slinks through my skull. “Ouch. Sorry. What?” I turn to her, holding a hand to the side of my head.
“Crapsicles. Bry, I’m so sorry,” she squeaks, jumping off the stool and tugging me over to it. She pushes me onto the seat and pulls my hand away.
