She hesitates, then lets out a small sigh. “Oh, alright. But don’t leave a mess for me.”
“I promise to clean up everything. You can sit down and relax and watch me.”
Cody and Bridger move quickly, guiding her toward a chair, sitting her down with murmured reassurances. She watches me closely, her fingers twisting together in her lap.
I open the refrigerator, scanning its shelves. It’s pretty bare: a stick of butter, a block of cheese, a carton of eggs, and a thick package of deli meat. It looks like ham. “Do grilled ham and cheese sandwiches sound good?”
“And chips?”
“That’s right, thank you for reminding me, we can’t forget the chips,” I say, pulling out everything I need. “I’ll put them right next to your sandwich.”
“I don’t know if I’ve ever had a grilled cheese sandwich,” she says, looking up to Damian. “Do you know?”
“No, I don’t,” Damian answers.
I move to the counter, grabbing the rest of the loaf of bread, slightly squished but still usable. A bowl of fruit rests near the sink filled with apples, a few ripe peaches, and a handful of grapes. “Do you like fresh fruit?” I ask.
“I’m not sure,” she says.
“That’s okay. I’ll whip up a small fruit salad and you can try it to see if you do like it.”
“Well, if you were going to do it anyway,” she says.
I grab a cutting board and start chopping, working quickly. The apples crunch under the blade, their crisp scent filling the air as I slice them into small, neat pieces. The peaches are softer, their golden flesh giving easily beneath my knife. Juice clings to my fingertips as I cube them, their sweetness mixing with the sharp citrus scent when I squeeze a bit of lemon I find in the refrigerator over the fruit. The grapes come last, plucked from their stems and halved, their deep purple skins glistening under the dim kitchen light. I find a jar of honey in the cabinet, twisting off the lid and drizzling just a little over the fruit. It catches the light, amber and smooth, before sinking in, bringing everything together. I set it aside.
“How am I doing so far?” I ask Delilah.
“I’m not sure,” she says, leaning back. “I haven’t tasted it yet, have I?”
I pull out eight slices of bread and start buttering them, making sure every inch is covered, edge to edge. Then I layer slices of ham and American cheese between them, stacking them carefully.
The pan hisses when I lay the first sandwich down, the butter crackling, the heat sealing everything together. I press gently, letting the bread crisp up, watching as the edges darken to a perfect golden brown.
A few minutes later, the sandwiches are done. A simple, comforting lunch.
When I turn around, Damian is watching me. Not saying a word. Just watching me.
Ignoring the way it makes my stomach flip, I pick up a plate and set it in front of Delilah. “Okay, here we go,” I say, forcing a lightness into my voice. “How yummy does it look?”
Her eyes widen as she takes in the meal, and a beautiful smile spreads across her face. “Oh, this lookssogood.” She picks up a sandwich, takes a big bite, and hums in satisfaction.
I let the warmth of the compliment settle in my bones for a moment, then one by one, I hand plates to each of the brothers. Bridger murmurs a quiet “Thanks.” Cody starts eating immediately.
When I place Damian’s sandwich in front of him, he doesn’t reach for it. He doesn’t even blink. He just watches me.
Then he steps in, the heat of him brushing against my skin. His fingers graze my elbow—barely a touch—but it’s enough to ignite something sharp and wild beneath my skin, a trail of fire racing up my arm. He leans down, so close I can feel the heat of his breath. His lips find the shell of my ear, hot and deliberate, and every part of me locks in place. “I’ll get you out of here,” he murmurs, voice scraped raw. “I’ll take you to Vick’s as soon as she finishes.”
I try to nod, but the sound of him, the feel of him, is enough to unravel me. My throat tightens, and when I finally swallow, it’s with effort. Everything inside me is burning.
His expression is carved from stone, all sharp lines and restraint—but in his eyes, there’s something there. Conflict, maybe? Like he wants to thank me but hates that he does.
But I blink, and it’s gone.
He pulls back. That soft thread between us snaps, his face settling into something harder. Detached.
I turn away before it settles in my chest, before I let it mean too much.
Chapter Seventeen
