I wake up. For a luxurious two seconds, I'm back to the world where Ryan isn't the only other person on Earth.
But as soon as the smell of something burning hits my nose and I remember he's in my house, I'm up and out of bed. I rush down the stairs, nearly falling and skipping the last four steps completely.
Ryan looks pretty calm when I run into him at the kitchen door. He's got a spatula in one hand and, stupidly enough, is wearing my dad's "Kiss the Cook" apron over the t-shirt and sweatpants I found him to wear to bed last night.
"Good morning, sunshine. I see you slept well." He's got a the dumbest grin on his face.
"Shut up, Ryan. What's burning?" I snap. I am so not putting up with him right now.
He sniffs the air, "Toast. But no worries. I got it."
I sigh, "You are really nuts, you know that? Now let me through." I try to push past him into the kitchen, but he won't budge. Stupid football player.
He grins, "Not a chance. Breakfast is a suprise. You can't see what I'm making."
I raise an eyebrow at him, "I doubt you can cook."
"I can do a lot of things. Like drive. You just don't know it."
"Just let me through, Ryan!" I try again, wishing I was wearing more than my little nightgown.
"Nope!" and he pushes me off, rushes into the kitchen, and I hear the little 'click' that means he locked the door.
"You're such a moron!" I yell at the door. Then I storm upstairs to change into something a bit more covering.
I decide on jeans and a pink cameo shirt, and when I come back downstairs, Ryan has the table set for two. He waves his arm over the table and says, "Take a seat, ma'am. Your meal will be out in just a moment."
"You're an idiot..." I mutter, but sit down anyways.
He comes back in with a plate of toast on one hand and a plate of pancakes on the other. He sets the pancake one in front of me, and says, "Bon appatite!"
I laugh out loud. He actually made me a bunch of little pancakes, mickey-mouse-shaped, with vanilla ice-cream noses. Little strips of bacon make frowns, and chocolate chips are the eyes.
"Wow, Ryan. Why are they frowning?" I grin up at him.
He smirks, "To look like you do about eighty percent of the time."
I ignore the comment and eat. It's actually not half bad. He's a good cook. Ryan eats with me, making jokes every once in a while. He didn't do anything spectacular with his breakfast, just round pancakes with bacon and toast (burnt black).
But I want to kick myself afterwards. Why? I found myself enjoying Ryan's company way too much.