Bad Ideas (First & Forever 4)

“I’m all for it. In fact, you can do whatever you want to me.”

“And there’s another huge statement, right on the heels of the last one.”

“I trust you, Theo,” I said, as I brushed his hair out of his blue eyes.

He sat up and chewed his lip for a few moments before asking, “Does it bother you that I’m not an open book, like you are? I’m really trying, but there’s so much in my past that’s tough for me to talk about.”

“It’s totally fine. I didn’t come into this with expectations or a timetable. Don’t ever feel you need to disclose things about yourself or your past before you’re ready.” He caught my hand and kissed it before offering me a cute smile.

Maybe half an hour later, the order arrived. I pulled on my jeans and went downstairs to answer the door, and Theo joined me two minutes later, dressed in jeans and a Pink Floyd T-shirt. He raised a brow when he saw all the grocery bags and muttered, “That must be one complicated pancake recipe.”

“I got some extra stuff, too. You said you didn’t have much food here. Now you do.”

“Thanks. What do I owe you?”

“Nothing. I’m sure I’ll end up eating a lot of this if you keep inviting me over.”

I followed Theo to the kitchen, and he got a pot of coffee brewing while I unpacked the paper bags onto the counter. When he asked if he could help, I told him, “You could grab a few mixing bowls, a pan or griddle, and some cooking utensils for me, since I don’t know where you keep anything.”

After he located everything I needed and put away the extra groceries, I told him I could take it from there. He filled a watering can, and as he started working his way down the pots along the back windows, I said, “You have more houseplants than anyone I’ve ever met.”

“It’s a strangely addictive hobby. I started with one little succulent I bought on impulse about five years ago, and one thing led to another.”

“I like them.”

“Me, too. It’s nice having something to take care of.” I thought that was an interesting take on it, and one I hadn’t been expecting.

When it was time to start making the pancakes, Theo came over to watch what I was doing. It was a pretty simple recipe that just involved adding a swirl of a cinnamon, brown sugar, and butter mixture to the top of the pancakes before flipping them. Once they were cooked, I drizzled them with a cream cheese glaze, then carried two heaping plates to his small bistro table while he brought us both a cup of coffee. The table was right beside a window that looked out over a narrow garden at the side of his house. It was as lush and green as his houseplants.

He cut a big wedge from his pancakes, stuck it in his mouth, and groaned with pleasure. As he enthusiastically sliced off another wedge, he gushed, “They’re the best thing I’ve ever had! Thank you so much for making them for me.”

“I’m glad you like them.” I was surprised by how excited he was. The pancakes were good, but he was acting like I’d just made him a gourmet, five-course meal.

He asked, “Are these something you grew up with?”

“No. Breakfast growing up was usually a bowl of cereal. My mom isn’t much of a cook. In fact, her specialty was dry-ass pot roast. It was so gross. She’d cook it for hours, until there wasn’t a drop of moisture left in it. The only way to choke it down was to dunk it in a ton of ketchup.”

Theo chuckled and told me, “That sounds awful.”

“Oh, it was, and she’d make it once a week. We didn’t grow up with much money, so I get it—we could only afford the cheapest roast. But did she really need to cook it until it was as dry as a haystack?”

“One of our foster moms was like that,” he said. “She overcooked everything. Her chili was particularly nightmarish. I can’t eat chili to this day, because it brings back memories of the weird, gross sludge she used to serve.”

“I always imagined you growing up in a wealthy family.”

He shook his head as he mopped up some of the glaze with a bit of pancake. “God, no. I was always dirt poor.”

That was when I realized I’d been dead wrong about him. Everything I’d ever assumed, based on the way he carried himself, the way he spoke, the expensive suits he wore to work, was all wrong.

And he’d said “our” foster mom—he had a sibling, or he used to. I remembered the pain in his eyes when I’d mentioned having a brother.

I felt like I was seeing him for the first time—not only the man he was now, but the boy he’d once been. With his overgrown, wavy hair, the giant T-shirt, and those old, ripped jeans, he probably would have looked just like this—pale and skinny, brilliant and damaged. I already felt protective of him, and now I wanted to wrap him up in my arms and never let go.