Then I open the door and walk toward the kitchen like I'm heading to my own execution.
The kitchen is chaos and warmth and noise.
Sergio stands at the stove, flipping pancakes with one hand while gesturing with a spatula in the other, arguing with Nacho about whether butter belongs on both sides of garlic bread. He's wearing a grey Henley that pulls tight across his shoulders every time he moves. His dark curly hair is still damp from a shower, dripping onto his collar.
Nacho sits at the table in his sheriff's uniform - the khaki shirt pressed sharp, the badge gleaming in the morning light. He's already working through a plate piled high with eggs and bacon, occasionally interjecting in the garlic bread debate with his mouth full.
Pedro leans against the counter by the coffee maker, wearing scrubs the color of storm clouds. His wire-rimmed glasses have slipped down his nose. He nurses a mug the size of my head, scowling at nothing and everything, his jaw tight with whatever thoughts are churning behind his grey eyes.
And Carlos.
Carlos is sprawled in a chair at the head of the table, feet propped on an empty seat, his work boots leaving faint dust marks on the chair cushion. He's wearing a flannel shirt - red and black checks - unbuttoned enough to show the white t-shirt underneath and a strip of tanned collarbone. His dark curly hair sticks up in seventeen different directions like he rolled out of bed and didn't bother with a mirror.
He's got a piece of bacon in one hand, gesturing with it while he talks, and a grin on his face that suggests he knows exactly how good he looks and doesn't care who notices.
The moment I step through the doorway, his scent hits me. Sandalwood and sawdust, warm and earthy and so distinctly alpha my omega practically purrs.
I tell it to shut up.
"There she is." Carlos waves the bacon at me like a victory flag. "We were starting to think you'd climbed out the window again."
"Don't tempt me." I move to the table, hyper-aware of four sets of eyes tracking my movement. My legs feel like they might give out.
Sergio slides a plate in front of the empty chair without a word. Pancakes - three of them, golden brown and steaming. A pile of crispy bacon. Scrambled eggs with melted cheese. More food than I've eaten for breakfast in two years because Callum always said pancakes were empty carbs and bacon was basically poison and eggs should be egg whites only.
My stomach growls. My throat tightens.
I sink into the chair and grip my fork like a weapon.
"Rough morning?" Carlos asks. His voice has lost the teasing edge.
I stab a pancake. The fork goes through with a satisfying resistance. "Callum froze my account."
The kitchen goes quiet. Completely, utterly silent.
Sergio's spatula stops mid-flip. A drop of batter hits the stovetop with a tiny hiss.
Nacho sets down his fork. It clangs against his plate.
Pedro's mug pauses halfway to his mouth. Coffee sloshes over the rim.
Carlos's feet drop from the empty chair, hitting the floor with a thud.
“How?” His voice has gone flat. Dangerous.
I cut a piece of pancake. Shove it in my mouth even though it tastes like sawdust. Force myself to chew. Swallow. "The one I opened when I lived in Pine Hollow, because I’d forgotten that he’d known about it.”
“I don’t understand, how did he do it?” Nacho's sheriff voice has emerged - steady, professional, but with an undercurrent of rage. "If he wasn't on that account—"
"He was." The words taste like ash. I cut another piece of pancake just to have something to do with my hands. "He added himself last March. Convinced me to sign papers during a 'romantic weekend getaway.'" I make air quotes with my fork. Syrup drips onto my plate. "I didn't even realize what I was signing. I was in love or so I thought, but one thing I’m sure about is that I was stupid and—"
"Stop." Sergio turns off the stove. Moves to the table. Sits down across from me with deliberate care. "You were being manipulated."
"Same thing."
"Not even close."
Pedro sets his mug down on the counter with enough force that I'm surprised it doesn't shatter. "That manipulative piece of—"
