Breakfast & Bombshells
~REVERIE~
"So let me get this straight."
I lean back in the booth seat—which is covered in festive red vinyl that's slightly cracked from years of use but still comfortable—and look at Nash across the table. Really look at him. Study his face like I'm trying to solve a particularly complicated puzzle.
We're at The Gingerbread House, a local diner that goes absolutely insane with Christmas decorations every year starting the day after Thanksgiving. And I mean insane. Floor-to-ceiling holiday madness that would make even the most enthusiastic decorator take a step back and say 'maybe tone it down a notch.'
Garland wrapped around every available surface—the counter, the booth dividers, the light fixtures, even around the coat rack by the door. Twinkling lights strung across the ceiling in crisscrossing patterns creating constellations of red, green, gold, and white. A massive Christmas tree in the corner that has to be at least twelve feet tall—I have no idea how they got it through the door—decorated with what must bethousands of ornaments collected over decades. Fake snow sprayed artistically on all the windows creating winter scenes. Stockings hanging from the counter. Wreaths on every wall. Paper snowflakes dangling from fishing line. It's visual chaos but somehow it works.
Christmas music plays from speakers mounted in the corners—currently Bing Crosby crooning about white Christmases in that smooth vintage voice. The playlist is probably the same one they've used for the past twenty years. I recognize every song.
The smell is overwhelming in the best possible way—coffee brewing in industrial-sized pots, bacon frying on the griddle sending up aromatic smoke, pancakes cooking with that distinctive sweet batter smell, maple syrup that's so strong it's almost cloying, cinnamon from someone's order, melted butter, that distinct diner smell that's somehow both greasy and comforting. It makes my stomach growl even though we already ordered.
The booth we're sitting in is one of those classic red vinyl ones with the slightly cracked seats that have been repaired with matching red tape over the years. The table between us has that speckled Formica surface that's impossible to stain. There's a little jukebox selector on the wall but it hasn't worked in years.
The three of them insisted on bringing me here after the doctor's appointment. Said I needed to eat proper food and we needed to talk somewhere public so I wouldn't freak out about everything. Smart strategy. At least here I have to maintain some level of composure. Can't have a full anxiety breakdown in front of the Saturday morning breakfast crowd.
"You," I point at Nash with the precision of a lawyer making a closing argument, "walked into Charlotte's office at Evergreen Media Thursday afternoon?—"
"Technically it was early evening," he interjects.
I give him a look that clearly says 'do not interrupt me or I will stab you with this fork.'
He holds up his hands in surrender. Smart Alpha.
"You walked into Charlotte's office," I continue, "signed the dotted line when you found out my job offer was on the line, and practically didn't ask questions about the fine print that literally says you and your pack have to be with me and participate in all the Christmas festivities—with everything being posted, documented, or potentially televised for all the world to see on social media. Is that correct?"
All eyes land on Nash. Theo is sitting next to me on my left, his cedar-smoke scent mixing with the diner smells in a way that's surprisingly pleasant. Grayson is on my right, close enough that his thigh is pressed against mine and I can feel the warmth of him through my jeans. Nash is across from us, suddenly looking very interested in the sugar packets in the little metal holder.
He slowly pouts. Actually pouts. This grown Alpha lawyer who probably intimidates people in courtrooms for a living is pouting like a kid who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
"Yeah," he admits, his voice small.
Oh my god. Oh my god. That's the funniest thing I've seen in weeks. Maybe months. This confident, smooth-talking Alpha who showed up at my apartment holding my sushi like some kind of romance hero is pouting because he got called out for not reading contracts properly. The irony is not lost on me that a lawyer didn't read the fine print.
I snicker. Can't help it. The sound bubbles up from my chest and escapes before I can stop it.
His expression shifts from pouty to offended. "Are you laughing at me?"
"Yes. Absolutely. 100% laughing at you." I grin at him. "Your realization face is the funniest shit I've seen all week. And I hit my head yesterday, so that's saying something."
Theo makes a sound that might be a suppressed laugh. Grayson is definitely smiling.
Nash opens his mouth to defend himself—probably with some lawyer excuse about acting in the moment—but gets interrupted by our waiter arriving with arms absolutely full of plates.
"Alright folks, here we go!" The waiter is a Beta in his twenties with shaggy brown hair, a name tag that says 'Jeremy' in festive lettering, and a Santa hat perched jauntily on his head at an angle that suggests it keeps trying to fall off. He's got that practiced waiter skill of carrying multiple plates at once without dropping anything. "Let me get you sorted here."
He starts distributing plates with the efficiency of someone who's done this thousands of times. "Stacked pancakes with extra fruit and extra whipped cream for you, sir—" That plate goes to Grayson and it's absolutely ridiculous. The pancakes are maybe six inches high, fluffy and golden brown. Strawberries and blueberries are piled so high they're threatening avalanche. The whipped cream is a mountain that's already starting to melt into delicious rivers down the sides.
"Black coffee and plain pancakes for you, sir—" Theo gets a plate that's the complete opposite. Three perfectly round pancakes, no toppings, no syrup, no butter. Just dry pancakes on a white plate. And a mug of black coffee that smells strong enough to wake the dead.
"Gingerbread pancake platter with the works—" Nash receives a festive-looking plate where the pancakes are shaped like gingerbread men with chocolate chip buttons and icing smiles. They come with bacon, scrambled eggs, and hash browns arranged artistically.
"And the holiday sampler with everything for the lady." Jeremy sets down my plate last and it's massive. Like, enough food to feed a small family. Pancakes stacked high and fluffy with butter melting between the layers. Fresh strawberries and blueberries scattered on top like jewels. Crispy bacon strips arranged in a neat row. Three fat sausage links. Hash browns that look perfectly golden and crispy with just the right amount of crunch. And there's a candy cane stuck in the pancakes like a festive flag claiming breakfast territory.
I definitely ordered too much. Way too much. But I was starving and everything on the menu sounded good and honestly after nearly dying from a slip-and-fall accident in my own apartment I deserve nice things. Even if those nice things are going to result in a food coma.
