[Alyssa]
I am awaken the next morning by the smell of something burning. I look around to see that I'm still in the guest room of Ace's friend's house. The four beige walls around me are as bare as bare can be, but they match nicely with the off-white carpet.
I pull the black comforter, along with the white cotton sheets, from my body, still in last night's outfit. I kick my feet over the side of the Queen-sized bed and step on the cloud-like carpet. I walk to the door before unlocking it and pulling it open, the burnt smell getting stronger.
I step onto the cold hardwood floor and make my way to the spiral glass staircase and begin to descend, coming out at the kitchen. Ace's friend is fanning smoke from the stove.
"Shit!" he exclaims, pulling a skillet off one of the eyes. He dumps the contents in the trash, still not noticing me.
"Do you always burn breakfast?" I question as I sit at the marbled island in the center of his kitchen. I must have scared him because he jumps before finally looking in my direction.
After a few minutes, he replies, "Not often, no." He smiles afterward, but I ignore it. "So, Breeze-"
"Please, don't call me that," I interrupt, his eyes still on me as he transports the skillet to the sink. "Alyssa, my name is Alyssa."
He nods once. "Chresanto, but you can call me Chres or Santo. Whichever is cool with me." He sets the pan in the sink and turns the water on, a loud sizzling noise occurring as the water makes contact. "What time does Ace want you back?"
"Anytime before seven, usually," I respond, then curtly question, "Why? Did you want to finish your interrupted night?"
Chresanto chuckles, turning the water off. "Nah. Sex at eight o'clock in the morning isn't really my thing." He turns back to the stove. "Are you hungry? I made breakfast. Not, like, a five-course meal or nothing, but just something simple." I wrinkle my nose in disgust as I look at the sink. Chresanto turns around, and his gaze follows mine to the skillet. "I didn't mean to burn the bacon. It kind of happened while I was thinking."
"I'd prefer to stick with cereal and milk," I admit. "Do you have any?"
"I made breakfast, though," he counters, a frown appearing on his face. "You know, it's considered rude to not eat food that someone has cooked for you."
"Yeah, but I prefer to eat food that isn't burned. Besides, my aunt used to say that you can tell a lot about a man by the way he cooks." Chresanto's brow furrows with confusion. "For instance, if his food is halfway cooked, there's a pretty good chance that in a relationship, he's not going to take it serious."
"And she came up with that from assumption?" he quizzes, raising a brow.
"Nope, experience." Chresanto nods in understanding. "So, I'll take that bowl of cereal now."
"No, no. I insist that you try my breakfast," he presses, walking over to the wooden modern cabinets next to his stainless steel French 4-door refrigerator. He grabs two plates then two glasses. "What would you prefer to drink?" He sets the dishes down then opens the fridge. "I have orange juice, milk or if you prefer, I could make some coffee."
I sigh in defeat. "Fine, I'll eat your food, but judging by your ability to burn bacon, I think I'll stick with orange juice for now." Chresanto pulls the orange juice out then fills the glasses up and returns the orange juice to where it belongs. "Why me?"
