My Cone and Only (King Family #1) - Susannah Nix Page 0,63

guess we can’t just ignore it for the day.”

“No, probably not. Especially since we already took half of yesterday off.” His hand stroked down my back in a soothing caress. “But we don’t have to jump up and get to work right away. We can stay here awhile longer and enjoy the moment.”

“Good.”

My stomach growled, and he laughed. “Or we could see about rustling you up some breakfast.”

Reluctantly, I agreed to get up, despite the small, irrational voice in my head whispering that leaving the bed might break the spell and cause Wyatt to realize he didn’t want to stick around after all. But my hunger won out, and I shrugged on my robe while Wyatt pulled on his boxer briefs.

I followed him downstairs and started a pot of coffee while he examined the contents of my fridge. He offered to cook up some breakfast sausage and eggs, and I volunteered to make grits to go along with it.

“With cheese?” Wyatt asked, his eyes lighting up. My mom’s cheesy grits had been his favorite when we were kids. She’d taught me to make grits the old-fashioned way: low and slow with plenty of dairy fat. Good grits required patience and a cavalier attitude about your cholesterol levels.

“Of course,” I said, and he smacked a kiss on my lips as he carried the sausage and eggs to the counter by the stove.

I still had my grandmother’s O’Keefe and Merritt gas stove from the fifties, the kind with a built-in griddle and stovetop clock with matching Bakelite salt and pepper shakers. That big old stove was one of my favorite things about the house, and I’d paid a pretty penny to have it restored by a guy in Austin. Little had I imagined that one day Wyatt would be standing at it in his underwear making me breakfast.

Once I had the grits simmering on the stove, I poured two cups of coffee and set one next to Wyatt as he laid the sausage patties in my cast iron pan. It had also belonged to my meemaw and was probably as old as the stove, if not even older.

He seemed to know what he was doing, so I stood back and appreciated the view as I sipped my coffee. My eyes wandered over the familiar tattoos on his arms and the slightly less familiar ones on his torso. Only last night had I learned that the words inked around his rib cage were from his mother’s favorite Fleetwood Mac song. They weren’t the only song lyrics he’d had etched onto his skin. Lyrics from some of his favorite bands were woven through the tattoo sleeves on both his arms.

Looking at them now reminded me of the notebook I’d seen in his apartment. The one full of original songs he’d written.

“Hey, Wyatt?” I cradled my coffee mug with both hands, hoping I wasn’t overstepping.

“Yeah?” He turned and leaned back against the Formica countertop, folding his arms across his bare chest.

“Remember the night I drove you home from King’s Palace?”

“Only parts of it.” He frowned as he scratched the side of his head. “Why? Did I say something embarrassing?”

I shook my head, because this wasn’t about the things he’d said. “When you were puking in the bathroom I cleaned up your apartment.”

“I noticed.” He ducked his head guiltily. “Sorry, I should have thanked you for that and for looking after me that night.”

“When I was in your bedroom, I saw a notebook sitting open on the bed.”

Something a lot like fear came into his eyes. “Did you look at it?”

“I only saw a little of what was written on the top page—I didn’t mean to pry. As soon as I realized what it was, I backed away.”

He turned away from me and picked up the spatula. I could see the tension radiating through him as he pretended to check on the sausage so he wouldn’t have to look at me, but I couldn’t tell if he was angry, or just embarrassed to have his secret found out.

“I didn’t know you’d been writing your own songs.”

One of his shoulders twitched in a slight shrug. “I haven’t showed them to anyone yet.”

“Not even the other guys in the band?”

“No.”

I set my coffee down and crossed the room to wrap my arms around his waist. “Why not?”

He didn’t move, but he didn’t shake me off either. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.” I wasn’t letting him off the hook that easily. This was a big deal. There was passion