“Um… no.” She sounds thrown by the pivot. “I was going to make some toast and grab coffee, then start on the prep for?—”
“Sit,” I say, pointing at the table. “Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not a doctor.”
“I am a man whose friend fainted in a barn because no one forced him to sit down and eat something while he had the plague,” I point out. “You’ve been running yourself ragged looking after all of us. Let me return the favor without making it a whole thing.”
She hesitates, then slides into a chair. “You really don’t have to?—”
“I want to,” I say simply.
That shuts her up faster than any joke.
I whip together scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee. Delaney watches me, chin propped on her hand, eyes tracking my every move.
“You’re good at that.”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” I reply. “I lived on this ranch with Boone and Caleb through our twenties. You think either of them knew how to cook more than grilled cheese and panic pasta before you got here?”
She smiles into her mug. “Panic pasta?”
“Two ingredients,” I say solemnly. “Noodles and despair.”
She laughs again, softer this time, and I slide her plate in front of her, intentionally brushing my fingers over the table instead of her hand. Boundaries. We have them now. And I’m not going to be the first one to stomp all over them.
She digs in. I guess she didn’t realize she was hungry until food appeared. About three bites in, Boone strides in from outside, boots thudding, hat low over his brow. He stops short when he sees her, sitting there in a T-shirt from some long-ago festival, curls escaping her bun, eyes sleepy and content.
The man straight-up glitches.
“Morning,” he says gruffly.
“Hey,” she says, and I swear the air shifts.
His gaze skims over Delaney, cataloging details, remaining for half a beat too long on the bruise colored smudges under her eyes.
“You sleep?” he asks.
“Some,” she says. “I’m okay.”
“Hmm.”
It’s basically a Boone monologue.
His gaze flicks to me next. Suspicion. Disapproval. A little bit of “if you corrupt my chef, I will throw you in the horse trough.”
Relax, big guy. Too late on the corruption front.
“We were just talking about the schedule,” I lie smoothly. “And I was forcing her to let me cook for once. You know, before she stages a coup.”
One of his eyebrows twitches. He doesn’t believe me, but doesn’t have proof.
Caleb shuffles in a minute later, wrapped in a hoodie, hair sticking up as if he lost a fight with a pillow. He looks better, less gray around the edges, but still worn.
His eyes land on Delaney. Instantly, his whole face softens.
“Hey,” he says roughly, raspy from sleep. “Did you… eat?”
“She’s eating now,” I say without looking up from the pan. “Doctor Silas has it under control.”
