Griffin
I can’t believe I’m spending a Sunday morning trying to make maple, Brie, and pecan crepes while Cora sleeps in my bed upstairs.
I used to think there was no way I would spend the weekend cooped up at home with a woman, let alone attempt a fancy breakfast in bed for her.
Yet, the thought of making breakfast for my wife is growing on me.
I shoot a glare at the flour as it scatters everywhere. “Of course. Why would it be simple and clean?” I talk to myself.
With a sigh, I empty the flour into the mixing bowl and then roll the top of the bag. As I tuck the bag back into the cupboard, more flour spills out of a c***k, covering my shirt.
Soft footsteps pad down the hall as I c***k eggs into the bowl.
Cora appears in the doorway, wearing one of my old university shirts. The shirt
