Page 20 of Melting for the Firefighter
I follow him to the kitchen.
The room looks like the rest of his house. Everything is clean, solid, and arranged with quiet purpose. A black coffee maker sits beside the toaster. A row of knives hangs in perfect order. Therefrigerator has no magnets, photographs, or takeout menus. The counters are clear enough to perform surgery on.
It is a kitchen built for survival rather than living.
Lance takes eggs from the refrigerator and sets a skillet on the stove.
I sit at the small table and watch him cook.
This turns out to be a mistake.
His gray T-shirt pulls across his shoulders every time he reaches for something. The muscles in his forearms flex as he cracks eggs one-handed against the side of the bowl. His hair is still rumpled from sleeping in the chair.
He looks unfairly good for a man committing violence against breakfast.
“You are staring,” he says.
“I am supervising.”
“You know how to cook eggs?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know I don’t need supervision.”
The edge of one egg turns brown.
I tilt my head. “Evidence suggests otherwise.”
He gives me a look over his shoulder.
I smile sweetly.
A few minutes later, he sets a plate in front of me.
The eggs are cooked.
Very cooked.
I take a bite.
Lance sits across from me with coffee and watches my face.
“You can tell me they’re bad.”
“They’re brave.”
His eyebrows lower.
“They faced the pan and gave everything.”
For half a second, he only stares.
Then a low, startled sound leaves him.
A laugh.
A real one.
