Page 90 of Bitter’s Sweet

“Something died in here?”

“Breakfast.”

“Again?”

His mouth twitches. “You woke up mouthy.”

“I slept in a biker’s bed above a garage behind an embalming building while a Ravenfork stalker took pictures of my temporary guardian’s house. I think mouthy is a healthy response.”

“Temporary guardian?”

“I panicked and couldn’t pick a better term.”

“Pick again.”

I lean against the counter, careful not to stand too close because I learned last night what close does to us. “Bossy landlord?”

“Worse.”

“Grumpy security rooster?”

His eyes narrow. “Do not compare me to Sheriff.”

“You both look like you bite liars.”

“I bite other things too.”

Heat blooms low and fast in my belly. There it is. Barely morning and he is already trouble.

Bitter sees it. Of course he does. The man notices everything I don’t want noticed. His gaze flicks to my mouth, and the air tightens between us.

Then the toast pops up behind him.

Burned black.

I look at it. He looks at it. I press my lips together.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I was thinking you heat things with confidence.”

His mouth curves despite himself. “Food fears me.”

“Food should.”

He grabs the toast and scrapes it with a knife over the sink. I watch him because watching Bitter do ordinary things feels somehow more dangerous than watching him be dangerous. A man like him with a gun on the counter makes sense. A man like him trying to make toast after leaving my mother’s picture upright beside his bed does not.

He sets a mug of coffee in front of me. “Sugar’s there. Cream’s in the fridge.”

I blink at it.

“What?”

“You made me coffee.”