Page 45 of Born for Starlight

"You were asking."

She chuckled. "I was asking." She hung up on me, still chuckling. This info was going to be all over Jasper Creek by lunch time.

By eight I had the bread soaking in batter with cinnamon in it, and her pan hot. My shirt was hung over a kitchen chair because I'd been splashed twice and I only had the one shirt in the house. At eight-ten I heard her door open. Her footsteps were loud. She was making a point. Wanted to give me notice.

She came around the corner in gray sweats, hair in a messy knot, and stopped. She looked at me. I smiled at her.

She did not smile back.

"Morning," I tried.

"You're making breakfast." She was accusing me.

"French toast with cinnamon. Sit down, it's two minutes out." I forked two slices of bread into the skillet.

She flung herself down in the chair and glared at me.

Uh-oh. I'd fucked up somehow, but despite years of training reading people, I had no clue how.

I plated the toast, dusted it with powdered sugar, and set it on the table in front of her along with the real maple syrup. She looked down at her favorite breakfast and frowned.

"How did you even know this is what I like?"

"I called the diner. Talked to Lettie."

She groaned into her hands.

"It's fine," I said. "I told her I slept on the couch."

Her head came up out of her hands, and the look she gave me was worse. Somehow, I'd made it worse. I stood there, not knowing what in the hell I’d done.

She stabbed at the French toast. The bite reached her mouth, and her whole body betrayed her. She was unable to hold onto her anger for two bites as she savored her treat, then she looked up and glared at me again.

I poured her a glass of orange juice and set it down, which was apparently the final insult.

"OJ goes with eggs." She pushed the glass away. "Don't you know anything? Milk goes with French toast."

For fuck’s sake.

That was it.

I was done.

I'd carried her to bed like a gentleman, slept folded up on a couch built for a child.

Called around to find out her favorite breakfast, and managed not to burn it, and now I was catching hell over what beverage I gave her?

Oh, hell no!

"What is your problem?"

"You tell me. What's wrong with me?"

"Nothing's wrong with⁠—"

"Then why didn't you stay?" It came out fast. "Why didn't you stay in bed with me? Didn't you want me?" There’d been a catch in her voice.

The kitchen went quiet except for the sizzling pan.