Michael Taylor was sure- he was in love with Lydia Saunders, even if she was engaged to someone else. He had been for years and no one else came close. Not until that kiss happened.
Suddenly, Lyanna Saunders- the woman he vowed to hate forever- was...
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Waking up, I felt something warm on my stomach and sighed contentedly. That was until I cracked open one eye and saw Lyanna's cat sleeping on my stomach. Groaning, I close my eyes and mutter, "Good morning, Simba." When I heard a voice say good morning back to me, I startled awake and saw Max sitting in the chair opposite Lyanna's couch, a mischevious grin on his lips. "Max."
"Michael," he says, nodding in my direction. Bless him, he tries to look intimidating but he fails miserably. Motioning towards the cat, I can see him trying really hard to stifle a laugh. "I bet that wasn't the type of pussy you were expecting to see sitting on your lap this morning, huh?"
"You're right, it wasn't," I reply, playing him at his own game. Not anticipating that type of response, Max gag and retches and starts babbling about how I have to pay for all his therapy sessions. "Hold your horses, you're the one who started this. If you can't take it, don't play with the big boys, spud."
Just then, Lyanna's bedroom cracked open and out she walked in a pair of silk shorts pyjama set, her dark brown hair looking like a birds nest on top of her head. A very cute birds nest. Probably forgetting that I'm staying over, Lyanna walks to the kitchen and pours herself a cup of coffee, sips on it and then takes it back to her room, slamming the door behind her.
Max and I share a glance, wondering how long it would take before she realises what's happened and comes rushing back out, all embarrassed and apologising profusely. After a good few minutes, there's no sign of her. She's probably fallen back asleep. Getting up from the couch, I fold the blanket that Lyanna had thrown at me last night and place it on the arm of my makeshift bed before heading into the kitchen and start whipping up breakfast.
I demand that Max come to join me so he can give me a helping hand, preparing something for his mum. At first, I turned my hand at making French toast, heavily guided by Google and YouTube but after burning the third round, we gave up and decided that perhaps we should stick to the tried and tested full English breakfast. Easier said than done because when I raided the fridge, there was nothing in there that remotely resembled bacon. There were tomatoes, mushrooms, peppers, a little bit of cooked ham, some cheese and spinach but nothing that would make a greasy fry-up.
