The Hookup (Moonlight and Motor Oil #1)(10)

“Sit,” he ordered, putting all that on the table and going back to the kitchen.

He’d set the plates on the curve next to each other and he’d dished up equally, so I just picked a seat and sat.

“No, Iz, other plate,” he said, coming back with cutlery.

“Sorry,” I muttered self-consciously, shifting to the other chair.

“Better view, baby,” Johnny murmured close to my ear as he set a fork and knife next to my white plate.

I looked from the flatware to the room to see I was positioned facing it, and the windows, so he was right.

It was a better view.

I felt my chest warm as he took his seat.

Johnny grabbed the ketchup and squirted it all over his eggs.

I picked up my fork and stuck in.

I ate, alternately looking to my plate to get food and chewing it while staring out at the lush leaves dappled in sunlight beyond his wall of windows.

“Quiet,” he remarked suddenly and softly.

I looked to Johnny.

“Sorry?”

“You’re being quiet,” he noted.

“These are good eggs,” I told him.

His lips hitched. “Eggs are eggs, babe.”

I nodded, though they were actually good. Fluffy and light and well-seasoned.

Then I said, “Thanks for letting me have the chair with the view.”

“I got a chair with a view too,” he replied, his eyes on me telling me what his view was. “And mine’s better.”

I felt warmth in my cheeks and looked to my plate.

“Watched you walk into Home last night, no . . . giving you the honesty, watched your ass walk into Home last night, my plans of havin’ a few and relaxing after the week went up in smoke. Got up next to you, you looked at me, thought you were gonna bolt. Shocked the shit outta me you told me your name when I asked it,” he declared while I turned my attention back to him. “Maybe margarita courage that kept you where you were, just you in the beginning though. Now you’re here, you keep putting on your panties when you know I’m just gonna take ’em off, which means you gotta know I’m into you but you still can’t take a compliment for shit.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

He shook his head slowly, not taking his eyes off me.

“It’s your thing and you got no clue, and I seriously don’t know if I should give you one but I’m gonna. You work it, Izzy, so don’t apologize for it.”

I ducked my head and grabbed a slice of toast.

Johnny chuckled.

“Yeah, it’s your thing,” he muttered.

I tore a bite of toast off, eyes to the table, chewed it, swallowed and announced, “I used your toothpaste.”

“Seeing as I kissed you after you did it, that kinda wasn’t lost on me.”

My gaze flitted to his to see him taking a bite of his bacon. “I didn’t use your toothbrush, though.”

He swallowed before he stated, “Iz, you’ve spent time sitting on my face. Do you think I give a shit you use my toothbrush?”

I was somewhat appalled. “That’s kind of gross.”

“Sitting on my face?” he asked, though I could tell by the sparkle in his eyes he was teasing.

“No,” I said swiftly.

“Since you didn’t use it, I don’t have to be grossed out by it.”

“True,” I mumbled, putting my toast on my plate and picking up some bacon.

“I understand,” he said quietly and I looked again to him while I chewed bacon. “You had to go through my stuff to find toothpaste. You don’t want me to think you got nosy. But I got nothing to hide, Izzy.”

I nodded.

This all seemed very weird, complicated with a good deal of it contradictory, but at least that was good to know.

“Your bathroom is really nice,” I observed and it came again.

He turned off, looked at his plate.

Shut me out.

The Izzy I was normally would ignore it, find some way to move around it, but something made me ask, “Sorry, I . . . you . . . am I stepping where I shouldn’t?”

His black eyes came direct to me and they weren’t entirely impassive. There was something in their depths. I just couldn’t read it.

But surprisingly, he gave it to me.

“Left my old place, sold the place I grew up, fixed up this place and moved in after my dad died.”

“Oh God, Johnny, I’m so sorry.”

“There’s shit in my life I’m not big on talking about. Was tight with my dad. So that’s some of it.”

I nodded. “Of course, sorry. So sorry.”

He nabbed another slice of bacon. “You didn’t know so no need to apologize.”

“Right. Okay,” I replied quickly.

But even though this was an explanation, something niggled at me because I found it odd if he was still so deeply affected by his father’s passing, why he’d chosen to be in a place that daily, hourly, each second he was in it, reminded him of that in such a way it clearly bothered him.

I knew what it was like to lose a parent because I’d lost both. How that came about, I’d had no choice but to let them go and I’d lost each in entirely different, but not equally agonizing, ways.

I knew how hard it was. I knew how painful. No matter what way you lost them.