This Changes Everything by Jennifer Ashley Page 0,26

me, and we get lost again, in the night and the moment.

When I wake once more, daylight pours through the window and Zach is gone.

I lie still for a time, waiting for feeling to return to my body, thoughts to my head. Then I sit up in a hurry.

Sunshine fills the room, windows in three directions letting it in. Sunlight gleams on the white-painted paneled walls, the simple wooden furniture, the hardwood floor scattered with throw rugs.

My clothes are in a neat pile on top of the dresser. Did Zach do that? Or does he have a maid I now have to be embarrassed in front of?

I smell coffee. Heavenly coffee. And the smell of bacon frying.

I could sit here and debate, or I could get up and have some coffee and breakfast.

I slide out of bed and snatch up my underwear. The dresser contains photos, which I see once I move my dress. Zach has pictures of his family here, some of them at a desert lake on a boat. One with his dad and mom, then the four brothers together: Ryan, Zach, Ben, Austin. They’re laughing and goofing, Austin with one hand raised.

The photo captures their personalities well. Ryan, chin lifted. He’s the oldest brother and has to keep these guys in line. Ben, with his shy smile. Austin, daring anyone to get in his way. And Zach …

Zach is smiling, indulgent of his brothers, warmth in his eyes. He’s happy with his family, with his life, with his choices. A rare thing to see.

I’m not settled with anything. Searching—for what, I don’t know. I have good friends, a mom I love with all my being, a decent job, and prospects for another. I know I’m selfish for feeling empty, but the desolation in my heart as I contemplate returning to my own life smacks me. I want to cry.

I stop the tears by pulling on my clothes, zipping into the bathroom to wash my face and to try to pat my hair into place.

I finally go downstairs, following my nose to the kitchen. It’s a large room, as kitchens are in old houses, instead of a galley attached to a dining area or family room. A table stands here, real plates set out, and silverware.

There’s no maid in sight, just Zach with a spatula. He shoves a cup of coffee under my nose, which I take, and I gulp coffee gratefully.

“Breakfast?” he asks. “I did bacon and eggs. I hope that’s okay with you.”

“It is. But I really don’t have time …”

“Everyone has time for breakfast. It’s still early. We expended a lot of energy last night.” Zach laughs and kisses me on the cheek, comfortable with us.

I decide to enjoy letting a hot man fix me breakfast. Zach tells me to grab whatever I want, so I root in the refrigerator for butter for the toast, salsa for the eggs. He’s well stocked.

“Does your mom go shopping for you?” I ask.

“Hey, men can know about food. My mom never was much of a cook—she’s obsessed with accounting and numbers. She’s like Ben—can be absorbed in her job until she doesn’t realize the sun is down. My dad does the cooking, and my brothers and I figured it out when we moved into our own places.”

As he speaks, he serves me up scrambled eggs and crisp bacon, toast finished to perfection—not too dry, not too limp and cold.

Zach sits next to me as I shovel it all in, worrying about the time. Zach eats with more restraint. He’s a great cook, of breakfast anyway, and I force myself to slow down and savor it.

“I’ll cook dinner for you some night,” Zach says, fingers resting on his coffee mug.

My heart flutters. “Do you do gourmet stuff like Crepes Suzette? Whatever those are.”

“Nope. My cooking is pretty plain. Steak and potatoes. Burgers. I can put together a decent salad when I want to. And I make a mean soup of leftovers.”

“Sounds awesome. I don’t cook much, sorry.”

Zach shrugs. “Why sorry? The old days when you had to cook because you were a girl are gone. At least they are in my family.”

I relax. “My family too. My mom and I perfected the art of take-out. We know how to get what we want from almost any restaurant in town any time.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I love that.”

We talk about our favorite restaurants, which new ones we like, and the great ones we were sad to see go. You can tell