Icrackaneggagainstthe rim of the mixing bowl and watch the yolk slide into the sugar and butter.
A little shell follows.
“Dammit.”
I fish the piece out with my finger before wiping my hand on a dish towel and reaching for the next egg. The sound of Lucy barking has me looking out the kitchen window, laughing as I watch her run through a puddle in the driveway.
It’s still winter outside. Still Montana. But the light is changing now. It stretches a little longer through the kitchen windows. Warmer. Brighter. Like the sun itself is teasing us with the idea of spring.
I finished morning chores an hour ago, and when the guys told me they still had quite a bit to do, I took that as my chance to sneak away for some much-needed me time. It’s not often I get a momentall to myself—on account of living with four men and everything—so I’m soaking up the afternoon sun with just me, myself, and I. Steam still clinging to my skin from the shower, hair damp down my back as I move around the kitchen barefoot. The furnace hums low, and the kitchen is a little warmer from the preheating oven as I continue mixing the double-chocolate brownies for tomorrow’s dessert.
Valentine’s Day.
Pausing the mixer, I scrape down the sides of the bowl, hips swaying absentmindedly to Lainey Wilson’s “Watermelon Moonshine” playing from my phone on the counter.
I really need to ask Lawson how to work these damn speakers.
Reaching for my coffee, I take a sip and pause.
It tastes… wrong.
Wrinkling my nose, I set the mug down and look back and forth between it and the coffee maker.
Did I burn it?
“Who am I? Lincoln? Can’t even make a pot of coffee all of a sudden,” I mumble to myself.
I make a mental note to make a new pot when I’m done baking before turning up the volume, letting music fill the kitchen.
The sun hits the hardwood just right, and I spin once in the middle of the floor, laughing at myself. Flour dusts the front of my shirt, and a strand of damp hair sticks to my cheek.
But I can’t find it in me to care.
This moment feels likemine.
This house. This life.
Them.
I’m sliding the pan into the oven when my music cuts out, and my phone starts buzzing against the counter.
Unknown number.
My stomach drops, and for a second, I just stare at it. Nobody besides the guys or Josephine ever calls me, and I have Dante, Luca, Enzo, and Sebastian’s numbers programmed into my phone just in case.
I wipe my hands on a towel and answer. “Hello?”
Silence.
Then—“Anya?”
My fingers grip the edge of the counter. “Kat?”
Her name feels fragile in my mouth.
She exhales like she’s been holding that breath since the last time I saw her. “It’s me.”
I don’t realize I’ve stopped breathing until my chest starts to ache. “Are you—” My voice cracks. “Are you okay?”
