Bacon for Breakfast: Cooked by a hottie



Somehow I have been talked into another teaser… I am weak I know! Although saying that I have hesitated about this one because not only is it a teaser but it is also a bit of a plot giveaway.  After a bit of consultation it has been decided: who cares? We all know Ben is here to stay! At least I hope he is.

So for all the Ben Chambers admirers out there here is breakfast cooked by a hottie. However breakfast cooked by a hottie is not all that great if you have just survived the Fresher’s Ball….



 8.30 a.m.


I’ve come around again to the smell of bacon.

Mm, bacon. I don’t care who is cooking I just need some of the crispy goodness. Easing out of bed with very little crying or moaning I fling on the first clothes to hand and creep down the hallway attempting to keep my head as still as possible. Actually I ache all over, what on earth was I doing last night?

Oh yes that’s right. Dancing, snogging, dying.

Lock me up now.

I shuffle into the kitchen. I don’t think I have even been in this room yet, but that is not what stops me in my tracks.

“What the hell?” the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. I wish I had, then I could turn away and do a high speed shuffle to safety before being seen.

Standing at the cooker with his back to me is Ben the Singer Guy. I know who it is before he has even turned around.

He is just as tall as I remember, all long legs and defined back muscles, wearing jeans with bare-feet, his T-shirt damp around the neck where his just washed hair has been dripping as it dries. For the second time in twenty-four hours my brain fails to compute anything, anything at all.

He turns to face me and flashes me a cocky grin; one side of his smile lifting slightly higher than the other.

“Morning,” he says smooth as you like, sliding bacon out of a pan and onto a plate.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, but also really don’t want to know the answer. Did he sleep in one of the other girl’s bedrooms? Good god, did he sleep in my bedroom?

He grabs another plate from a cupboard and dishes some more bacon onto it, then sets about buttering some toast.

“Making breakfast,” he slides a plate towards me, which my hand automatically reaches for. Curse my stomach and its hunger pains.

“I see that, but why are you in my kitchen making breakfast?” I try not to make it sound accusatory but fail miserably.

“Technically, I think six people live here, of which you are one,” he smarts back. “So I think only one sixth of the kitchen is yours, which sixth would you like? The sink?”

Ha! Bloody ha in the morning.

“Actually, for your information,” I pause for effect….”Only five of us live here. Question is: which room did you sleep in?” I sound like a nut case. He should just walk out and leave me to be crazy by myself.

Hopefully he will leave me with the bacon.

“Um, nope. There are six of us that live here.”

His eyes, which really are an extraordinary blue, gaze on me as he observes me processing this information. It must be funny to watch, as by the time I have come to realise that the ‘us’ he is referring to means that he is going to be living here as well … in this flat … under the same roof … with me for the whole academic year … His lips are fighting the urge to break into a grin.

You have got to be kidding me!

I glare at him. Go on, laugh.

“You know I think you’re a dick, right?”

He laughs out loud.

“Well, then my job here is done,” he sniggers as he flicks on the kettle. “Coffee?” he asks, grabbing two mugs out of another mysterious cupboard.

How come he knows where everything is and I have not even been in the kitchen before? I can’t be bothered to ask though.

“White two, sugars please,” I say with a sigh as I slide my bum onto one of the stools under the counter. It’s only when I feel the cool plastic material against my bare leg that I realise I am standing there with practically no clothes on.

Like nothing.

Just skimpy shorts, made out of ridiculously miniscule scraps of material, not intended to cover essentials, and a camisole. No underwear or anything.

He is still watching my face and I don’t want to look like a complete prude so I just sit there trying to cross my arms over my chest. It is a bit cold. There is sure to be nipple rise.

“So how’s the hangover?” he smirks, and I can’t really blame him. Last time he saw me I was passed out over his shoulder. I almost join in until I remember that I have not brushed my teeth yet.

God I am such a treat!

“It’s cracking actually,” I end up smiling; I can’t help it. He smiles, too. Blue eyes holding mine for the briefest moment; just long enough for my cheeks to warm up.

“What was with the kissing?”

Did I just say that?

The blues stare at me.

“Seemed like a good idea.”

“Seemed like?”


“That’s nice.”

“Listen, Lilah. I saw you from across the room and recognised you from last year. I have been kind of trying to spot you again since then. I just grabbed my opportunity when it arose.”

I try to think of a suitable response, but the only thing I can come up with is, “Huh.”

Very clever.

“Well, now we live together, I shall try not to kiss you again,” he smirks a little more, which just pisses me off. Like I would let him do that again.

“Should not be a problem. I won’t be getting that drunk again,” I retort, grabbing my plate and heading for the door.

Pissed off or not, there is no way I am not eating that bacon.



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