I hesitate. I should be hungry but I’m not. “Whatever you want is fine with me.”
He frowns. “Allora, you have to eat.”
“I know!” I don’t mean to snap but it comes out harsher than I intended and I quickly back pedal. “Sorry. I’m just not hungry. I don’t know what’s going on. I assume it’s some kind of stressreaction to what happened. But if you make something, I’ll eat a little.”
“Did you sleep all day?” he asks, dark eyes meeting mine.
“Not all day, no.”
“Hiding in my room and starving yourself isn’t going to change anything or help you heal.”
“If I don’t know what I need to heal, I’m pretty sure you don’t.” I guess I’m still a little salty about last night’s rejection, and the words come out heavily laced in sarcasm.
Landon watches me for a beat and then turns to the fridge. “How do you feel about breakfast for dinner?”
Normally, I love it.
Tonight, I can’t muster up much enthusiasm.
“It’s fine.”
“Bacon, eggs, and biscuits?”
“Sure.”
“Okay.” I follow him to the kitchen and watch as he pulls a box out of the pantry and starts combining a flour-like mixture like he’s done it a hundred times. He preheats the oven, pulls bacon and eggs out of the fridge and works efficiently to create the meal.
I feel ridiculous standing here watching without offering to help but the truth is, I don’t want to. I don’t want to do anything. That’s the main reason I’m determined to go to Denver. I have to get back into the groove of my life, even if it’s only a small part of it.
By the time everything is done, my stomach seems to have awakened and it rumbles with interest. Since I didn’t help him cook, I set the table and he puts generous portions of scrambled eggs and bacon slices on each dish. I probably won’t eat that much but I’ll try.
He brings butter and some kind of jam to the table before sitting across from me.
“Thanks for cooking,” I say politely.
“You’re welcome.” He looks up, and when our eyes meet, that same sizzle sparks between us.
Except I have to be imagining it because he made it clear he wasn’t interested. So, I dip my head and focus on the food in front of me.
To my surprise, the eggs are light and fluffy, the bacon is cooked just right—not too crispy and not too soft—and the biscuits are melt-in-your-mouth good.
“This is delicious,” I say in surprise. “Where did you learn to make biscuits like this?”
“Rage’s grandmother taught us. Said we should know how to cook a couple of meals really well. Breakfast is one of them.”
“And the others?”
“Carbonara sauce from scratch and a two-cheese meatloaf that’s pretty epic.”
“Sounds delicious. And she sounds delightful.”
“She was. She passed away a few years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, losing her was tough. She’s really the only family either of us had, other than my sister.”
“I’m familiar with that feeling,” I murmur. “I have a dad but it doesn’t always feel like it since we’re not close.”
