Preoccupied with his cooking, Foreman took Amber's cooperation for granted. He grabbed a plate and set it next to the stove. The omelette slid out of the frying pan perfectly, golden brown on the outside with just a few bits of onion and bacon showing through. Turning off the heat, he popped up the toast--Amber had liked it more like warm bread the last time she'd fed him breakfast--and then carried it all out to the table. "If you wear me out first, you'll have to scrounge for your own."

Sitting down, he divided the omelette with one knife stroke, and lifted Amber's portion over to her plate with a fork. He was eager for her to taste it, unlike last night's cobbled-together, barely palatable meal. It would be better if she praised it without him making a big deal of it, so he chose a jam jar pretty much at random and focused on slathering some on a piece of toast. The coffee smelled amazing; after a sip, Foreman already felt more alert. Damn, but he felt good.

He shrugged equably at Amber's question. Usually he worked through his weekends, with a few breaks for necessary errands. Sometimes in the evenings he'd go for drinks with Chase and Cameron, or a few other people he knew vaguely socially. Hospital colleagues. His pick-up basketball teammates. Maybe it'd sound boring, but he didn't want to change his routine too much to make himself look better in Amber's eyes. It'd only take a few weeks before he ran out of exotic destinations and she found out the truth. She already knew he focused mostly on his career. "I don't know. I've got an article I'm working on. I usually go to the gym." He glanced at her with a grin before forking up his first bite of omelette. "Think you could take me at a little half-court?"