Right. How remiss of me not to have memorized the cat section of Merck’s Veterinary Manual when I don’t own a damn cat.
Crumbs and spilled liquids surround a crumpled dishtowel on the counter, but I force myself to remain seated. Even as my hands itch with the urge to clean.
She emerges from the kitchen barefoot and carrying a plate in one hand. Steam rises from the dish, along with the scent of butter and salt and burned egg. I track each sway of her hips, noting the confident stride that was absent yesterday.
The plate lands on the coffee table in front of me with a soft thud. Charred toast, dripping with butter. Overcooked eggs with a few pieces of shell mixed in.
I gawk at the sorry excuse for a meal, unable to process what I’m seeing. No one cooks for me. Not since my mother died. Food prepped by professionals who understand my expectations appears because I pay for that to happen. Thisdisaster before me is so far removed from what I normally eat that words fail me.
Her hip brushes my shoulder, and her fruity scent invades my lungs. Always such a damned distraction. One I didn’t plan for yet am loathe to lose.
A nervous laugh tumbles from her lips. “It’s not my best work. Your stove is different from mine. Much fancier.”
I read the hope written across her face and in the twist of her hands as she awaits my reaction. Her breakfast isn’t defiance. It’s not a test or a challenge or a boundary-pushing exercise.
It’s an offering.
Stifling a pained sigh, I pick up the fork, lift a piece of egg to my mouth, and bite down. Fuck, it’s awful. Rubbery and salty. The toast is no better. The charred bread crunches like gravel, leaving the taste of carbon on my tongue.
Optimism brightens her features. “Good?”
Instead of answering, I set the fork down, striving to ignore the burned brown circles on my plate. Sausage, maybe? Poor pig died in vain. “You said you wanted art supplies.”
Her smile falters, but then the distraction works. “I do.”
“Tell me what you need.” I pull out my phone, ready to make a list and treat this like any other business negotiation. “Pens? Paint? Brushes?”
“A tile nipper and a bag of china remnants. Bottle caps are good too. But I can find those anywhere. I used to get them from work.”
I almost choke on the gulp of orange juice I downed to banish the flavor of rubbery egg and burned toast. “I don’t…what? You want garbage?”
“Not garbage.” She shakes her head with a smile. “Materials. I do mosaics.”
“Mosaics.” Construction? The kind in bathroom tiles and entryways? What the hell’s she trying to do, remodel my loft?
“I take broken things and craft them into something beautiful.” A dreamy quality softens her voice. “I’ve done it since I was a kid. But in the last few years, I’ve gotten more serious about my art. I had this dream of doing it full time. You know, shows and stuff. But who can earn a living as a mosaic artist?” She lets out a self-deprecating laugh and collapses beside me on the couch. “Definitely not an overworked cocktail waitress.”
I want to wrap my arm around her and pull her close. Instead, I still, afraid that any motion might send her scurrying away.
She’s never sought proximity to me before.
“But even so,” she wiggles her fingers as if grasping an invisible object, oblivious to my internal struggle, “mosaics are the only things that have always made sense to me. Taking things that are broken, that people would throw away, and finding beauty in reassembling them in a new way.”
Her eyes meet mine, and for a second—just a second—I catch a glimpse of an emotion beyond fear or mere will to survive. Genuine feeling triggers her glow.
My chest tightens.
“Oh, and I also need grout, adhesive, and safety goggles.” She breaks the connection to continue listing off supplies in a businesslike tone. “And substrate boards. Some wooden frames. Clear epoxy resin for finishing. Rubber gloves. The heavy-duty kind, not those flimsy latex ones. Some large canvases would also be nice.”
I nod, fingers flying across my phone screen as I note each item. The list grows, specific and detailed. I record every request with the same attention I’d lend to an arms shipment or a territory negotiation.
She hesitates, nibbling her lower lip. “And…Samantha?”
I lean back to study her face. I’ve already wired the tuition funds via a cash app, so what else could her sister possibly need? “What about her?”
Her expression becomes wary. “Are you going to protect her?”
Aurora’s still keeping secrets and holding back pertinent information. Does she know who trashed her apartment? “From what? What happened?”
