She’s wearing a pair of my sweatpants—the drawstring pulled tight and knotted at her waist—and one of my old Cranes T-shirts that hangs off one shoulder and reaches nearly to her knees. Both completely swallow her frame. Her honey-blond hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, and her face is makeup-free, the bruise on her cheek stark in the morning light.
She came here with nothing except the clothes on her back. I make a mental note that I need to get her some new clothes.
“Good morning,” I say, offering her a smile.
She tucks a strand of hair that’s escaped her ponytail behind her ear, looking almost shy. “Good morning,” she says, shaking her head. “I can’t believe how late I slept. I don’t think I’ve slept in this late my entire life.”
“Well, I think you needed it.”
She nods, wrapping her arms around herself. “Yeah. That’s probably true.”
Beatrice jumps down from my lap and pads over to Tessa, weaving through her legs in figure eights and rubbing against them as she purrs. I still can’t get over how much she likes her. It’s so unusual for my cat, who normally treats strangers like they’re personally offensive to her.
“Can I get you some coffee? Breakfast?” I ask, standing from the couch.
“No, I’m fine,” she says quickly, shaking her head.
I cross my arms, giving her a look. “Tessa, come on. You’re going to be here for a while. You need to eat.”
She hesitates, her gaze dropping to where Beatrice continues to circle her ankles. “Well… if it’s not too much trouble.”
“It’s no trouble at all,” I say, already heading toward the kitchen. She follows, Beatrice trotting along behind her.
“I actually just made some coffee.” I pull a mug from the cupboard—one of the oversized ones I usually use—grab the pot, and fill it before handing it to her. Our fingers brush briefly as she takes it. “Unfortunately, I don’t have any fancy creamers or anything. Just milk and sugar.”
“Milk and sugar will be fine,” she says softly, moving to the counter where I’ve left both out.
I watch her fix her coffee—two sugars and a splash of milk—while I pull ingredients from the fridge. Eggs, cheese, bell peppers, mushrooms, spinach.
“How does an omelet sound?” I ask, setting everything on the counter.
“An omelet sounds great.”
“Cheese, veggies—what would you like in it?”
“Anything,” she says, cradling the mug in both hands. “I’m not a picky eater.”
“All right.” I start prepping the omelet, cracking eggs into a bowl and whisking them. Then I pull a croissant from the bakery box on the counter and slide it into the toaster oven. “Have you had the pastries from the bakery down the road?”
“No.”
“Oh, they’re the best.” I glance over my shoulder at her with a grin. “Just wait until you try this croissant. It’ll change your life.”
She smiles, a small, genuine thing that makes my chest feel lighter.
She sits quietly at the kitchen table while I finish cooking, sipping her coffee and watching me move around the space.Beatrice has claimed the chair beside her, sitting like a sphinx and staring at Tessa adoringly.
I plate the omelet—fluffy and golden, stuffed with cheese and veggies—and set it in front of her along with the warm croissant, butter melting into its flaky layers. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and place it beside her plate, then sit across from her with my own cup of coffee.
“You’re welcome to anything in the house,” I tell her, leaning forward slightly. “Eat whatever you want. Use whatever you need. I want you to be comfortable while we figure out the next steps.”
She nods, picking up her fork. “Okay.”
“I think our goal for today is to do some online shopping.”
She grins and glances toward her oversized attire. “I don’t care about fashion. They might not fit great, but they’re comfortable.”
“That may be true,” I say, trying not to smile too hard, “but they’re literally falling off you. I think you should get some new clothes.”
