After taking care of all those morning needs and studiously ignoring the mirror, I headed back to the kitchen and started cooking. It was already seven a.m., and knowing Cam, he wouldn’t sleep much longer anyway. At least the sun was out and the snow had stopped. Looked like about two, maybe two and a half feet.

I had the bacon fried and crumbled, mushrooms chopped, and eggs whipped when Cam walked in. I dropped a pat of butter in the frying pan and turned to see him watching me.

Oh crap. Sleeping Cam was one thing.

Sleepy Cam was quite another. He cracked a huge yawn, stretching his hands up to the doorframe. His shirt drifted up, revealing so many abs. So. So. So many abs. It was like they’d brought friends along to play or something, because that many ridges couldn’t be normal. Nope. He was inhuman.

“Morning, Pika,” he said with an easy smile.

And I melted like the butter in the pan. Which was now sizzling.

Also accurate.

Crap.

“I’m making omelets,” I said.

“You are,” he agreed. “You don’t have to, you know. If you give me a second, I’ll do it.”

“No, I wanted to. Want to,” I corrected with a shake of my head. “Mushrooms, bacon, cheddar?”

“Perfect,” he answered, but his brow furrowed. “I’ll be right back.”

He headed toward his bathroom as the smell of burned butter smacked me in the nose.

“Ugh,” I groaned, taking the pan off the burner. A tendril of smoke wafted from the pan. Go figure.

Fine. If I was going to be butter, then I was the cold, hard stick in the refrigerator. Yep. Cold and hard. Not soft, not melty, not sizzling, and definitely not burned.

I washed out the pan and set it back on the stove. Then I started Cam’s omelet.

“Please let me help,” he said, reappearing in the kitchen, all barefoot and yummy.

“I’ve got it,” I assured him, tending to his breakfast. “Consider it my thank-you for saving me last night.” He gave me that weird look again. “What?” I asked.

“I can’t remember the last time someone cooked for me,” he admitted. “At least not outside a restaurant or something.”

“Your girlfriends never make you breakfast?” I could have kicked myself in the face for asking that. My hand clenched the spatula.

“No girlfriends,” he said, leaning back against the counter and watching me. “I tend to keep my”—his forehead wrinkled up—“relationships short and breakfast-free.”

“Because breakfast equals marriage?” I joked.

“Because letting someone do things for you, letting someone care for you, gives them power. Power’s not something I give away.”

I stilled.

“What? Does that sound too cold? Too asshole-ish?”

“No,” I answered quietly, letting my eyes slowly lift to his. “It sounds lonely.”

“Loneliness is a longing, an ache from unmet need for companionship that I don’t feel.” He shrugged.