Page 70 of His Reckoning

I close the refrigerator again.

This feels like a boundary I shouldn’t be crossing.

I walk toward the hallway. Halfway there, I stop, turn around, walk back into the kitchen, and open the refrigerator again.

None of this fits into my normal routine. I do not cook breakfast for people. I don’t even cook breakfast for myself.

Usually, I grab coffee and deal with food later. But the idea of Kayla surviving on caffeine and pure determination suddenly bothers me more than it should.

I grab the eggs, a pan, and the bacon. Halfway through cracking the third egg, I realize what I’m doing … and pause.

I genuinely don’t recognize my own behavior right now.

I run companies. I negotiate deals worth more money than most people will see in their lifetime. And yet here I am, standing in my kitchen, making scrambled eggs like a man with entirely different priorities.

For a woman who technically isn’t even supposed to be living here.

I stare at the pan for a moment before I release a sigh and finish cooking.

The bacon sizzles, and the eggs cook quickly. The smell fills the kitchen.

Another thought occurs to me.This is exactly how you wake someone up.

I glance toward the hallway. Kayla’s door is still closed, which means she’s either still asleep … or still writing.

Both are equally possible.

I plate the food anyway. It looks alarmingly thoughtful. I set it on the island and step back.

The bigger issue is that I have no believable explanation prepared.

When Kayla walks into the kitchen, she’s going to ask questions, and I will not have answers.

I take another drink of coffee and lean against the counter.

I should’ve ordered coffee and minded my business.

I’m halfway through my coffee when Kayla finally appears. Her hair is pulled into a messy knot on top of her head.

She’s wearing oversize sleep shorts and one of those loose shirts that hangs off one shoulder, like she pulled it on sometime around two in the morning and never reconsidered the decision.

She stops in the doorway, then sniffs the air.

Her eyes narrow. “Why does it smell like breakfast?”

I straighten slightly. “Because it is breakfast.”

Kayla walks toward the island carefully, like she expects the plate to disappear if she gets too close.

She looks at the plate, at me, then back at the plate. “You cooked?”

“Yes.”

“For yourself?”

“No.”

Kayla blinks. “For me?”