Page 41 of Holding Out for a Gyro
He poked me. “Yes, dear?”
I snorted. “What smells so amazing?”
“I’m making you breakfast.”
I’d never in my life had a man serve me breakfast. It was outside the realm of my imagination, at least without cursingand slamming cabinet doors.
“Can I help?”
“You can start the coffee.” He looked at me. “Youcanmake coffee?”
“Of course. I work in a coffee shop.”
“Oh, right.”
Once I got the coffee brewing, I excused myself to shower and brush my teeth and change. I was planning on focusing on a graphic design commission, so I slipped on my yoga pants and a worn-out college sweater. I grabbed my phone off the end table and rejoined Bas in my tiny dining room, where he’d started setting plates on the table.
“Sit,” he commanded.
When I took a sip of coffee, I gasped. “What did you do to this?”
He just smiled. “Secret.”
“You didn’t come in it, did you? I’ve heard about that!”
He burst out laughing. I loved the sound of his laugh—joyful and spirited, like everything he did. “Are you saying my jizz would improve the taste of your coffee?”
I curled my feet up into my chair to get comfy. “I hadn’t thought about the logical ramifications of that claim. But if that’s how you made this coffee better, then yes. I’d like to order a sack of your semen.”
He shook his head at me and went into the kitchen to perform magic on whatever was making my house smell like a carnival in the best possible way.
Fifteen minutes later, Bas came back from the kitchen carrying a plate with a tower of French toast, perfectly golden and brown, sprinkled with powdered sugar and cinnamon, and steaming hot.
I carved off a small corner and ran it through the syrup. As soon as it hit my tongue, my body melted in pleasure. “Oh shit, Bas. Are you kidding me? You are welcome here any time.” Icaught myself. “I mean—” But the genie was out of the bottle. I wiped some syrup off my chin and asked, “Are you going to get me used to this and then pull some kind of reverse Lysistrata where you withhold food in return for sex?”
“I don’t need to bribe you with food for sex.”
Oh, the cockiness. I kind of liked it. If Old Chelsea were here, she’d want to shut him down before he got too comfortable, taking me for granted. But flirty New Chelsea was in charge because my God, the French toast was seriously magic. “So you’re not wooing me?”
“Wooing you?” His forehead furrowed, making him look like a brooding model in some magazine spread. Bas was easy on the eyes, but then he went and said, “I guess I am wondering what we’re doing.”
“Are you my fuckboy? My booty call?” I nudged his knee with my socked foot. “My casual hookup?”
If I was freaking him out, he only laughed. “Well, I’m not a fuckboy. And I’m obviously catching feelings for you. But it’s not a hostage situation. I can wait to see where things go.”
That checked out. One reason he could be the perfect trial romance for me was because he said things like that. He pushed, but so gently. And I started to think maybe that wasn’t all game. He probably could take it or leave it, like he had with his other abandoned interests, like French and fencing. When things got too challenging, he quit. Why wouldn’t that apply to women, too? To me?
His casual answer reinforced my certainty that he’d leave me if I didn’t yeet him first. And if I let him charm me with his easy warmth, I’d be the fool with the broken heart.
He reached across the table, and I looked at his hand like it was the Rosetta Stone.
He arched an eyebrow. “Take my hand, Chelsea. I’m not going to propose.”
Thank God for Bas. I took his hand, and he dragged his thumb across mine, like he’d done it a million times, like we were old lovers, old friends. Like we could stay this way forever.
“I won’t play games, okay?” At my flinch, he squeezed my hand tight. “And I’m not going to rush you, either.”
I swallowed. My breakfast was entirely forgotten.
