Padding down the short hallway I’m brought up short by the sight of Gabriella stretching onto her tip toes to pull a jar of cinnamon down from the cabinet. She’s wearing my T-shirt which just barely covers her ass as she reaches for the spice.
I chuckle, stepping forward to snag the jar for her. Expecting a flustered thank you I’m caught off guard when she bursts into hysterical laughter.
“What’s so funny?” I ask while holding the cinnamon powder.
“They’re so tight, they look like leggings!” She shouts as she gasps for air.
I don’t have to glance down to know she’s right. The sweatpants she left out for me are a second skin at this point and the cuff is cutting off circulation in my calf. They’re too short and far too tight but they are still more comfortable than the jeans I wore last night.
Shrugging off her amusement I take over her French toast while she catches her breath.
By the time we sit down at her café size table she’s shaken off her giggles.
“Thanks for making breakfast. I never remember to eat in the mornings.” I tell her as I bite into a crispy piece of bacon.
“I can’t start my day until I’ve had coffee and carbs.” Gabriella says.
She gets up and pours herself a cup of coffee and asks me if I want one.
“Coffee ain’t my thing but, I’ll take a coke if you have one.” I tell her.
“No pop but I do have orange juice or tea.” Her reply comes from the open door of the stainless-steel refrigerator blocking my view.
“Sweet tea? Hell yeah.” I reply quickly.
She leans around the door to meet my eye as she shakes her head with a mournful sigh.
“Orange juice it is then.” I tell her.
The little heathen.
Her wardrobe is fine, I can live with it. But unsweetened tea is where I draw the line. Next opportunity I’m smuggling beverages down from my apartment.
“Oh!” She pops her head back out from the fridge, “I do have Vernors.” She says with a hopeful lilt to her voice.
“What is that?”
“It’s a pop.” She tells me.
I raise an eyebrow as I raise another strip of bacon up to my mouth.
Her barefoot does a little stomp and her hair gets tossed in a fit of annoyance.
“It’s a soda pop.” She tells me. “A ginger ale to be specific.”
Crunching on my bacon I shake my head. “Orange juice please.”
Crazy woman. Ginger ale for breakfast. Must be a northern thing. Not my cup of tea but I’ll add it to my grocery list all the same. I’ll even brew a pitcher of tea without adding sugar. I’ll need to get another pitcher of course. A different color for sure. Like how restaurants keep decaf and regular coffee separate.
“What’s your favorite kitchen color?” I ask as she takes a swig from her mug.
Her forehead scrunches and she asks, “What is a kitchen color?”
“Like a theme.” I tell her, “My mother is into red right now and my sister is going yellow with a bumblebee theme.”
“Lemon yellow.” She says after a moment.
I nod to myself. Yellow works because my current pitcher is red.
