When I finally looked up, he was staring at me with those gray eyes, flat as weathered nickel. Something in them softened, just for a second, when he saw the blueberries.
“Smells good,” he said, almost grudging.
“Thanks.” I could hear the edge in my own voice, bright and brittle as a cracked plate. “I can make eggs, too, if you want.”
He shook his head, then uncrossed his arms and moved to the table. Even the act of pulling out a chair felt like a challenge, a demonstration of how easily he could bend wood and metal to his will. He sat, then rested his hands on the table, fingers splayed, scars and calluses catching the early light.
I carried the plates over, one for him and one for me, and poured coffee into thick diner mugs I’d found in the cabinet. The simple act of serving him made my pulse spike, and I felt my skin flush from the neck up.
He waited for me to sit, which was unexpected. I tucked my knees under the chair and kept my head down, trying not to stare at his hands or his face or the stretch of muscle under his t-shirt. I set the butter and syrup in the center, labels turned out, then retreated into my seat.
He forked a stack of pancakes, chewed, and swallowed.
I waited for the verdict.
“Not bad,” he said. Then, after a beat, “Actually, pretty damn good.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Thank you.”
We ate in silence for a while, the only sounds the scrape of forks and the faint hiss of the radiator kicking in. I tried to match his pace, but he ate with the mechanical precision of someone who’d lived off MREs and didn’t trust meals that required chewing.
Halfway through the meal, he spoke. “You always this neat?”
I froze. My brain flipped through the last ten minutes, trying to figure out if I’d done something wrong. “I—yeah, I guess. Sorry.”
He shook his head. “Don’t apologize.” He gestured to the kitchen. “Pretty sure this place hasn’t looked this good in ages. Not since my granddad, probably.”
I smiled, small and fast. “I like things clean and organized.”
He fixed me with a look, one eyebrow raised. “You can relax, you know. You’re not gonna get fired.”
The words went straight through me, sharp and stupid. I didn’t know how to answer, so I just took a sip of coffee and let the silence spackle over the moment.
He finished his plate, then pushed it forward, elbows on the table. “You got plans for today?”
“Whatever you need,” I said.
He considered this. “I want to check the fences on the east boundary. Then we’ll look at the barn. You ever run cattle?”
I shook my head, the motion small.
“You’ll learn,” he said, then stood, chair scraping the tile.
He rinsed his plate, set it in the drying rack, then turned to me, eyes softer than before. He moved to sit down again. “You did good, Jojo.”
My name in his mouth felt strange. Not bad, just new. I swallowed, heat blooming in my chest.
The pancakes were long gone, but I still felt the charge of Rawley’s attention, like a wire buzzing in the base of my spine. He sat across from me, arms folded on the table, his mug cradled in both hands, watching as I picked at a blueberry with the tip of my spoon.
For a long time, neither of us said a word. Light from the windows crawled across the table, brightening the splotched old wood and turning everything—syrup bottle, butter dish, Rawley’s forearms—into a study in shadows and gold.
Finally, he cleared his throat. “You settle in okay?”
I nodded, quick. “Room’s great. Mattress is better than anything I’ve ever slept on.”
He grunted, a sound that seemed to mean approval. “You’re a light packer.”
I tried to laugh, but it stuck in my throat. “Not a lot to bring, these days. I lost most of my stuff after I left the bakery.”
