Still barefoot, he stood in front of his stove, cracking eggs into a pan. His other hand was holding a spatula, which he used to point her to a barstool on the other side of his cooking station.
So she sat, watching him chop up some veggies and toss them in with the eggs. Then he grabbed the handle of the pan and with a flick of his wrist, flipped the omelet.
Two minutes later he’d divided the eggs onto two plates, added toast, and served her with an easy efficiency that was sexy as hell.
“You’ve been doing that a long time,” she said.
He shrugged. “My parents worked around the clock. So did my aunts, and being the oldest, I was the babysitter of a lot of kids. It was cook or go hungry.”
She knew he had a big extended family, and that he took care of most of them. He was good at taking care of others, really good. “Who takes care of you?” she asked.
His gaze met hers, warm, curious, probably because normally, she did her best to keep some mental distance between them—it was the only way she knew how to resist him. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to ask such a personal question.”
He didn’t say anything for a long moment, pouring them both juice, then sitting on the barstool next to her. Their thighs brushed, and when he reached for a napkin, so did their arms.
“I take care of me.” He turned his head to hold her gaze. “The same way you take care of you. It’s who we are, it’s what we do.”
She nodded. Then shook her head. “Does it ever get to you? Always being an island?”
Reaching out, he brushed the tips of his fingers along her jaw. “I guess I don’t let myself think about it too much.”
“That’s usually my tactic too,” she admitted. “But sometimes it gets old.”
He watched her inhale the food he’d made for her, a small smile curving his mouth. “We could do something about that.”
She nearly choked on a bite of toast. “Meaning?”
He just smiled.
Something low in her belly quivered. A good kind of quiver. One she hadn’t allowed herself much of in a long time. “Um . . .”
“You telling me you haven’t thought about it?”
She met his gaze. “To be clear, by it, you’re suggesting we . . . sleep together.”
“I’m suggesting I’m here to meet any need you have, any time.”
If she thought about that for even another second, she was going to crawl into his lap and wrap herself around him. Instead, she stood up, took both their empty plates and went to the sink with them. She rinsed them and helped herself to his dishwasher, loading the dishes inside. When she turned, he was right there, close enough to touch, and she sucked in a breath. “That was the only need I’m capable of helping you with at the moment,” she said, even as her body vehemently disagreed with her.
Mateo smiled, like no worries. Or maybe because he knew she was lying. “And you?” he asked. “Is there a need I can help you with?”
She had to bite her tongue rather than answer yes, please!
His amusement faded. “Want to talk about last night?”
“No.” Definitely not.
He just looked at her for a long beat. “When you’re ready, then.”
She fussed with drying off his countertop. “Thanks for breakfast.”
“Any time.” He gently pulled her back around to face him. “But just so you know, I’m sure we could do much better than breakfast for you.”
Her body, knowing it, shifted against his. “I . . . need to work up to that.”