“Where’s my phone?”
“Your bag is on the front table.”
I move to stand and decide against it as the room spins. Hammond drops the spatula he’s wielding and walks for my bag. It’s in my hands a moment later.
“Thanks,” I utter.
He pushes up a smile, and nothing has ever looked so forced. Probably can’t wait to get rid of me. I most likely screwed up his plans of taking somebody home last night. A guy like Hammond must have a roster of willing women to?—
“Bacon with your eggs?”
“Um, you don’t have to cook me breakfast. I’ll get out of your hair.”
I take a steadying breath and stand, with the help of the couch.
“Sit, Tennison.” He points the spatula to the stool at the kitchen counter.
“Okay, but you really don’t have to make me breakfast.”
“You need it. Sit.”
Bossy damn man.
I sit, heaving my bag over the back of the stool.
A plate appears in front of me. He rounds the counter, and a moment later the coffee I left on the floor comes to rest by my plate.
“Hamm—”
“Miles.”
“What?”
“You can call me Miles, we’re not at work.”
Oh.
I clear my throat and adjust on the seat before staring at the food.
Cutlery. I’m missing cutlery.
“Can I?—”
“Shoot, sorry.” A knife and fork slide over the counter toward me.
“You’re not eating?” I ask.
He shakes his head, like he’s snapped out of some far-off dream. “Yeah, starving.”
“What time is it?” I reach for my phone.
“Almost eleven.”
“Oh shit, sorry. Were you waiting for me to wake up?”
He slides a second plate to the place beside me.Well, this is cozy.
Sitting down on the stool, he sips the mug of coffee he made for himself. We eat in silence. Me, because I have no idea what to say to the man who is practically my boss but took it upon himself to make sure I made it home—well,somewhere—safely.
