Waking Up by Renee Dyer

 I can feel her grief reverberating across the room,  engulfing me.  She’s lost in the pain.  Just saying he’s dead has sent her into a tailspin.  Should I go to her?  I’m a stranger.  I don’t know if I’ll make it better or not.  I look at her again and see she’s looking at me.  Her breathing is more even.  She’s studying me and suddenly, as if nothing has happened, she smiles and asks, “How’s your breakfast?”
    The fuck?  Can you say whiplash?  Well, if she wants to pretend she didn’t just have a mini panic attack then I guess it’s the least I can do for the meal she made.   And the fact you’ve been mind-fucking her since you saw her. It doesn’t matter that you didn’t know she was a grieving widow.  You know you’d still stick her if she let you, you filthy bastard.  My mind is throwing too many horrible thoughts at me to keep up with.  Hopefully she doesn’t take my hesitation as a sign that I think she’s a nutcase.  Putting on as sincere a smile as I can, I look her straight in the eyes– those mesmerizing eyes– dammit, I’m doing it again.  Down boy.  “Breakfast is delicious.  Thank you.  I’ve had entirely too much fast food the last few days.”
    A simple raise of her eyebrow is all the reaction I get from her.  Normally people pry.  Ask a million questions.  They’d want to know why I’m living off fast food.  Why I’m not eating healthier.  She doesn’t ask anything.  Doesn’t pry.  Just keeps eating.  Again, I find her company refreshing.   Comforting.   I don’t think I’ve ever found a woman other than my mother or Grams comforting. The feeling shakes me to the core.
    “I can make more if you’re still hungry after.  It’s nice to have someone to cook for.”  It’s cute the way her gaze shifts to the table and a slight blush creeps to her cheeks like she’s embarrassed to offer to cook for me.  I start to get hard.  What about her doesn’t turn me on?  Thinking back, I’m trying to remember if I’ve ever had this reaction to a woman before.
    “You like to cook?”  The words slip out before I realize I’m asking a question.  Curiosity is winning out.  I want to know everything I can about this beautiful woman sitting across from me.   Wish she was sitting on me.   The smile that crosses her face stops my wayward thoughts dead.  All I know in this moment is I don’t want to leave after breakfast.  I would give anything to stay and learn as much as I can about her.  I’m intrigued.  And it all started with her perfect ass.  I’m in trouble.
    “I love to cook.”  Again, that smile. Her hands join the conversation like a child excited to tell their parent something, making me want to laugh, but I don’t want to offend her.  “I even took a year of culinary classes after college for fun.  My mom is a pastry chef so growing up with her taught me a lot about baking.  Culinary classes were more for learning the main courses.  Don’t misunderstand me, my mom is an amazing cook in every way, but I still wanted to learn more.”  Images of her in an apron and stilettos with nothing else on, bending down to remove cookies from the oven, chocolate chip– because those are my favorite and this is my fantasy– has me adjusting myself under the table.
    “I bet you make some scrumptious sweets if this breakfast is anything to go by,” I say with complete honesty. Though, the only sweets I’m thinking of are on her body and how badly I’d like to spread her out on her dining room table.  I am such a bastard.  Only moments ago she tells me her husband is dead, practically has a full blown panic attack, and all I want to do is serve her up as dessert on her table.   Bastard!  
    “Thanks.  Haven’t had any complaints,” she says, completely unaware of the mental battle I’m having.  “My mom always says it’s hard for people to complain when you’re sweetening them up.”  I can’t stop the light