“Me too,” I said before she could second-guess herself. “How about we get some breakfast?”
Gretchen peered over at the clock on her bedside table and looked surprised when she read the numbers. “It's already ten!” she said in surprise. “I haven't slept that late in forever.”
“So, brunch, then,” I amended, grinning down at her.
“Brunch,” Gretchen agreed, shaking her head. “Wow.”
“You slept well, then?” I asked.
“Yeah, really well,” she said rolling away from me and stretching, the move reminiscent of the one that she had performed on the beach after we'd had sex.
I couldn't help coloring and shifting a little, feeling my morning wood stirring. But Gretchen was laughing and rolling out of bed. “Oh no,” she said, shaking her head. “We're already late enough that we're in danger of having to wait forever in line for a spot at a brunch place. And anyway, I need to Skype with my parents at some point before it gets too late in the day. They're a few hours ahead, remember?
“Yeah.” I sighed, rolling out of the other side of the bed. I looked around for my clothes.
“Pretty sure all your clothes, and maybe my panties, are downstairs. Last night was so incredible.” She blushed, stealing my heart.
“It was perfect. You were perfect,” I said succinctly.
She ducked her head shyly. “You were too.”
“How about this?” I suggested. “You must have something in this house that could be cooked for breakfast. Why don't I make us breakfast?”
Gretchen rolled her eyes. “Like you know how to cook,” she said, a teasing note in her voice. “You probably have someone come in to cook all of your meals back home.”
I laughed and shook my head. “I've always enjoyed cooking,” I admitted. “It's a little less fun when you're just cooking for yourself, but it’s a necessity, right?”
“The mysterious talents of Christian Wall,” Gretchen said, shaking her head. “Why don't we whip something up together? If you can make some eggs, I'll heat up some pre-cooked hash browns that I batch-cook, and then I'll make some fruit and yogurt parfaits.”
I grinned at her, liking the idea of us being there in the kitchen together, working in tandem. “That sounds like a great idea,” I said. “And I can cook eggs.”
“Can you poach them?” Gretchen asked. “Because that's the only way that I eat eggs.”
I blinked over at her and then frowned. “I can try,” I said. “I'm sure there's a how-to video out there somewhere on the internet. Usually, I just fry mine or, sometimes, scramble them.”
Gretchen burst out laughing. “I'm just kidding,” she said. “Anything sunnyside up to over medium is fine. I'd take them hardboiled if that's what you wanted to do.”
I laughed and shook my head. “Minx,” I told her, pulling her into my arms and kissing her, trying to ignore how much that simple action turned me on.
“Come on,” she said, leading me toward the stairs. “I'm hungry.”
After a mutually-cooked breakfast, which was surprisingly filling and tasty, we decided to go for a walk on the beach. It was my suggestion; I knew that I needed to tell Gretchen that I was looking at flights home. I'd reached the decision at some point the previous night, or maybe that morning, when I'd woken up with her head pillowed on my chest. It wasn't fair to keep it from her.
Still, having reached the resolve that I needed to tell her and telling her were two entirely different things.
“I can't imagine living someplace where there wasn't a beach.” Gretchen sighed, shaking her head. “I've just always lived within walking distance of the beach. It's where I do most of my deepest thinking.”
“It's nice,” I agreed. I paused. “New York doesn't have a beach. Not like this.” I didn't know why I said it. It wasn't as though I was trying to ask her to come back with me. I was about to tell her that I was leaving. The whole thing was just hideously out of place.
“Yeah, I know,” she said softly. She shook her head. “Honestly, I wouldn't match the pace of New York anyway.”
“I know,” I told her. Because that was truth. I bit my lower lip, wondering if she knew exactly what I was trying to say, without my even having to say it.
I took a deep breath, preparing to let it out. It was like ripping off a Band-Aid. Before I could get the words out, someone called from behind us.
“Chris! Christian!”
I spun around, wondering if someone from the paparazzi had finally caught up with me or something. I knew they were interested in this Hawaiian girl who I was spending all my time with, or maybe they were wondering what I was planning to do with my Christmas. Maybe they were looking to share some photos with their customers, as some cheesy Christmas special, which had happened before more times than I could count.