Nothing But This (Broken Pieces 2)

“It was bleeding on my plate,” she reminded him. “It turned the lumpy mashed potatoes pink.”

Back then they had both laughed at his failed attempt at cooking. She had kissed him and thanked him for trying. Then they had ordered Indian food and spent the rest of the night making love. That was the night she had finally said yes to his marriage proposal.

“Eggs are easier,” he said confidently. “I was too ambitious that night. I guarantee a salmonella-free breakfast today.”

She pursed her heart-shaped lips before shrugging. He kept sneaking glances at her as he worked. She looked absolutely stunning, as usual. She could wear a sackcloth and look gorgeous. Her figure still retained some of her pregnancy weight, but it suited her. Her breasts were fuller, her hips seemed rounder, and despite the innate athleticism of her willowy body, she looked lush. He ached to touch her, to explore those fuller curves, her plump breasts . . . she looked like an earth goddess, with the frayed silk of her wavy black hair billowing around her face and all of that golden, glowing skin that he knew would be satiny soft to touch.

She was wearing a short, long-sleeved lacy white dress—the contrast against her skin was fantastic—combined with a faded denim jacket and heavy-duty combat boots. She loved those boots. She liked working in them and had once told Greyson that they were the comfiest shoes she owned and perfect for standing for long hours. He hid a grin at the sight of the frilly socks peeking over the tops of the boots.

He had always enjoyed her quirky dress sense. The combination of hard and soft suited her to a T.

“Something’s burning,” she said, her voice interrupting his mooning thoughts.

“Shit,” he swore. He leaped for the toaster and pushed the button that would eject the slices. The bread popped from the appliance, and he managed to catch one piece, swearing when it burned the tips of his fingers. The other slice landed on the floor. And that was fine because it was burnt to a crisp.

“What the fuck?” he couldn’t stop himself from exclaiming, raising his voice a notch. “I’m sure I had it on medium.” He checked the dial, and it was definitely on medium. “Did the toaster come with the house?”

“Yes,” Olivia said, her voice tiny and almost contrite, and yet he was sure he detected amusement threaded through the regretful tone in that one word. “I do have one of my own.”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” he asked, a little exasperated.

“Well, I didn’t know that one was broken,” she confessed. “I mean, I haven’t really made toast since living here.”

“Where’s your toaster?” he asked, his voice a surly grumble. He bent to pick up the other slice of toast from the floor and chucked both in the dustbin.

“Cabinet next to the oven. It’s still boxed. I don’t think it’s worth the effort. I could just have normal bread.”

“I’ll decide if it’s worth the effort,” Greyson stated, then hid a wince at the imperiousness of both his words and tone of voice. She raised her eyebrows, looking seriously unimpressed with him, and folded her arms over her chest, nodding her pointed little chin at him.

“Go for it,” she invited him, and fully committed now, Greyson turned to fish out the brand-new four-slice toaster. He removed the eggs from the stove top, not wanting to burn those as well, and shoved the skillet into the oven before focusing on the toaster once more.

He had to use a knife to slice through the tape, and the first one he used was too blunt, so he exchanged it for a butcher knife, nearly cutting himself in the process. After that he had to deal with the weird soft bag thing wrapped around the device. It stuck to the metal of the toaster, and Greyson had a hard time extracting it from the bag. He then battled his way through seemingly endless plastic wraps and ties, as well as the weird tiny cardboard housing that seemed to have been jerry rigged around the plug, before finally exultantly holding the unboxed toaster aloft, curbing the instinct to throw back his head and utter a triumphant war cry. He felt like a conquering hero until he happened to glance at Olivia. She was sitting at the kitchen table with her cheek resting in the palm of her hand, watching him with an enigmatic curve to her lips.

Mona Lisa had nothing on the mysterious little smile gracing Olivia’s mouth. Was she laughing at him? Probably. He couldn’t even open a bloody box without fucking it up.

“Toast coming right up,” he promised, hoping the eggs weren’t too cold by now.

The toast was blond, so pale it was just warmed bread, really. It turned out Greyson, in his haste to get breakfast served, hadn’t checked the settings. Libby kept her amused grin hidden when he swore a blue streak at the sight of that underdone toast.