After a beat, I turn slowly. “Morning,” I offer, even though it’s nearly noon. “There’s fresh coffee in the pot and creamer in the fridge.”
He grunts an acknowledgment but doesn’t move.
“Do you need any help?” he asks.
I don’t, but rather than discourage him, I scramble for a task he can complete.
“I’m almost finished with the eggs. Everything else is warming in the oven. I was going to make coffee for Sawyer. Could you do that? Do you know how she likes it? Not sure if she’ll be able to stomach it, but it’s worth a try.”
With a nod, he shuffles for the coffeepot. “On it.”
He opens an overhead cupboard, then another. Before he’s found the mugs, Shiloh is at his side, sniffing him and nudging his hand with her nose.
“Sorry about that,” I chuckle. “She loves Sawyer, so I bet she smells her on you.”
He slowly crouches, wincing as he goes. “She’s sweet.”
“Her name’s Shiloh,” I offer. “Just let me know if you want me to put her upstairs. I don’t want her bothering you or jumping on you and injuring you more.”
With a groan, he rises. “No, she’s fine. I’m the stranger here. This is her house.”
He turns back to the cupboard, and I leave him to it, not wanting to disrupt the precarious cordiality that’s settled between us. I want him to be comfortable here. I want him to feel like he can open cupboards or ask for anything he might need.
“I’m not sure if we can expect them anytime soon—” I say.
But as I turn back to the stove, there’s movement in my periphery.
Mercer appears in the hallway, with Sawyer right behind him. His attention is solely focused on her, so he doesn’t notice that I’m watching them. That I’m practically staring. Analyzing. Desperately trying to catch his gaze.
His eyes are puffy like he’s been crying, but there isn’t a trace of disappointment or devastation on his face.
Did they talk? Are they okay? Where do things stand? Where the hell do we go from here?
Before I can voice any of the rapid-fire questions in my mind, before I can lock eyes with Mercer and gauge his temperament, they step out of the hall. Side by side. Holding hands.
Relief washes over me.
“Uh, those might be burning,” Tytus hedges from behind me.
I whip back to the stove, and shit—he’s right.
The eggs are peppered with brown, overdone bits, and an acidic smell wafts up from the pan.
I shake my head to clear it.
Doesn’t work.
A fresh, anxious hopefulness has replaced every other lucid thought in my mind.
I’m too jazzed up about what I’ve just seen to stress about botched eggs. By the time Mercer and Sawyer enter the kitchen, I’m grinning so hard my face hurts.
“What can we help with?” Mercer claps me on the back and sidles up to me. He glances down at the burnt eggs, wrinkling his nose.
“I got distracted,” I offer by way of explanation. “Everything else is done. Just get yourself coffee or whatever you want to drink. I’ll serve.”
With a nod, he cuffs my neck with an affectionate squeeze, then moves toward the cupboard.
He’s good.
