It makes me nervous.
“I’m sorry for—” I start.
The front door opens, and Jax walks in.
“Car is started. Ready?”
I nod quickly, grateful for the interruption. I follow him outside without looking back at Zephyr, even though I can still feel his eyes on me.
Jax drives. Zephyr takes the passenger seat. Then Callum comes jogging out of the house and slides into the backseat next to me.
He’s close. Too close. I can smell the lingering alcohol on his breath mixed with something else. Cologne maybe. Or just him.
“Hey, Tiger,” he says, and that grin is back.
My face heats again. I look away quickly, catching Jax’s eyes in the rearview mirror.
He’s watching me, studying my reaction.
I look down at my hands.
The drive takes about fifteen minutes. Early morning light filters through the windows, soft and hazy. The streets are quiet. Peaceful.
Jax pulls into a parking lot, and I see the sign forThe Broken Yolk. Bright yellow letters against white.
We’re in Fullerton. The Orangefair Marketplace on Harbor Boulevard. I’ve driven past this place a hundred times but never stopped.
Inside, the restaurant is bright and cheerful, with yellow walls, lots of windows, and a patio out back, but we head for a booth near the back.
And then I’m sitting down, and I realize what this looks like when I catch eyes across the restaurant.
Little me surrounded by three massive men. Jax on one side, so close our shoulders almost touch. Zephyr and Callum are across from me, taking up the entire booth.
People are staring. I watch their eyes tracking our table. Curious. Judgmental. Probably wondering what a girl like me is doing with three guys like them.
My chest tightens. I hate this. I hate being the center of attention. I hate people looking at me and making assumptions.
A waitress comes over with a bright smile. She hands us menus, but her eyes linger on Jax. Then Zephyr. Then Callum.
Not me.
“What can I get you to drink?”
“Coffee,” Jax says.
“Same,” Zephyr adds.
Callum leans back, grin stretching. “Orange juice. Large. And water. And maybe a shot of espresso if you’re feeling generous.”
The waitress laughs, then she looks at me.
I mutter, “Just water, please.”
She nods and walks away, and I open the menu to have something to focus on.
The options blur together. Pancakes. Waffles. French toast. Skillets. Omelets. Benedicts. Everything sounds good but my stomach is in knots.
“You okay?” Callum asks.
