What I Need

“Man’s gotta eat, babe. I was hungry,” I tell her. I lift my bowl to show her my evidence. “Besides, I’m pretty sure I’m allowed to stand around a little. Why the fuck else would they give me crutches?”

“I could’ve made you breakfast,” she informs me. “You should’ve gotten me up.”

“Make me breakfast now.”

Riley looks from the bowl in my hand to my face again. She tilts her head. “But, you ate, didn’t you?” she questions. “Isn’t that bowl empty?”

I flash her a smile. “Yeah, it’s empty. But I typically polish off half a box before I get going every morning. This was just my first bowl.”

Her eyes go round. “You eat a half a box of cereal every morning? Really?” she asks, sounding and looking shocked.

“You see how big I am? Fuck yeah, I eat half a box of cereal every morning. Sometimes more.” I go to set my bowl in the sink, but hesitate, looking back to her and asking, “Are you going to make me something or should I pour myself another?”

Riley blinks, lets her eyes fall to my bicep and hold there for a breath, then looks back into my face. Reaching up, she pushes her hood back and starts walking toward me.

“Eggs okay?” she asks.

Hell yeah. She’s making me something.

“Fuckin’ A,” I answer, freeing my hands up and then moving out of the kitchen to give her some space. I get around the counter and claim a stool, leaning my crutch against the seat beside me. Riley carries over the other I had propped against the stove and my coffee after she spots it. She hands them over. “Appreciate it, darlin’,” I say before taking a sip.

Her cheeks pink up. She pulls in a breath through her nose and tucks her hair behind her ears. “Right. Eggs,” she says, clapping her hands together. “You want sunny-side up or over easy?”

“Scrambled off the table?”

Her lips press together. “Mm, I’ve been told my scrambled needs work,” she informs me, lifting her shoulder. “I always overcook them.”

She looks a little uneasy sharing that, and I have a feeling it’s not because of what she’s sharing but rather who had that opinion and gave it to her.

I set my cup down and keep my hands around it, watching her gaze fall.

“Look at me,” I tell her.

She lifts her eyes.

“Anything you feel like making me, I’m going to eat,” I begin to share, keeping hold of her gaze. “I'm going to appreciate you for making it, no matter what it is, and I sure as fuck am not going to tell you it needs work. The fact that you’re making it means I don’t have to. That’s not lost on me. So if you’re feeling scrambled right now `cause that’s what you prefer making and fuck anyone who says you can’t do it right, have at it, babe. If you set it in front of me, I’ll eat it. I’ll enjoy every fucking bite too.”

Half of Riley’s mouth is lifting by the time I finish speaking. She blinks at me, then drags her teeth across her bottom lip and nods her head, declaring, “I want to make scrambled. They’re my favorite.”

“Hell yeah. Do your thing, girl,” I encourage, making her giggle. I smile at her, giving her that before she spins around to get started.

Riley Tennyson, smiling and laughing in my kitchen.

Fuck yeah. I like this.

I sip my coffee as she moves to the fridge and takes out the eggs. “I cooked them wrong for years until someone told me you gotta take them off the heat when they still look wet. I had no clue,” I tell the back of her, wanting to offer up some advice without Riley knowing that’s what I’m doing.

That dumbass she was with should’ve helped her out if he was bitching about what she was giving him. If you’ve got the balls to critique someone, you need to show them what they’re doing wrong so they can learn. Otherwise, keep your fucking mouth shut.

I’m going to assume, since he is a dumbass, that Richard bitched and didn’t offer up any advice.

Riley straightens up and looks at me over her shoulder after digging through a bottom cabinet and pulling out a pan. “Yeah. That’s a . . . pretty important step. Otherwise you’ll totally overcook them,” she says, sounding sure of herself.

I smirk behind my coffee cup.

She starts getting everything ready—cracking eggs into a bowl and whisking them together with some milk while her pan is heating up.

I stare at the back of her, at my name written in white. The block lettering peeking out from underneath the hood.

“I’m going to go grocery shopping today, so let me know if you want anything specific,” she says, lifting my gaze to her messy, bedhead blonde. I hear the sizzling of the pan as she pours in the egg mixture.

“Can’t think of anything,” I tell her. “Except maybe some more Raisin Bran. I’m running low.”

“What?” she chuckles. “You have like, five boxes in your pantry. I saw them last night when I was getting out the bread.”

“That’s a two-day supply for me. We covered this.”

Riley continues laughing quietly as she stirs. “Okay. I’ll pick up some more while I’m out,” she says through a smile I can’t see. “I was thinking about making chili for dinner. Do you like chili?”

“I fucking love chili, but I wasn’t lying. If you put it in front of me, I’ll eat it. So if it’s something you feel like making, make it, babe. Don’t worry about what I like.”