Knox could eat, but he couldn’t eat all that.
I darted my gaze to him and accused, “You made breakfast.”
“I keep telling you, I’m not an invalid,” he replied, walk-hobbling to the kitchen. “Sit your ass down. It’s done and time to serve up.”
This meant he didn’t make himself breakfast.
He made us breakfast.
“I’m supposed to be looking after you, remember?” I snapped.
But still, Knox had made me scrambled eggs before. His eggs were almost always fresh due to his incomprehensible love of grocery shopping. He slow cooked them so they were fluffy and silky, not tough, and he added minced garlic and cheese. If he was feeling fancy, he sautéed mushrooms (alas, I did not buy him mushrooms last night).
So, obviously, I wandered to his kitchen and commandeered one of the two plates he had out.
“I can scramble some eggs and fry some bacon, Luna.”
He was the only double gunshot wound victim, four days post incident, who probably could.
But I wasn’t going to quibble, as evidenced by me scooping eggs onto a plate I already had three rashers of bacon on.
“Sit. I’ll do your plate too,” I ordered, and watched as he set aside his crutch and lowered himself to one of his steel I’m a Man with Taste! barstools with a slight grimace on his face.
He’d done too much, the big idiot.
And I’d given him shit about those barstools, because they looked good, but they weren’t comfy.
I bet he was rethinking his design choice now.
I did not give him shit this time.
“You need some aspirin or something?” I asked as I made his plate.
“I’m good. I’ll take something after I eat.”
“Okay,” I said, sliding his food in front of him, going direct to his cutlery drawer and getting us both knives and forks.
I handed him his, took my plate and sat down next to him.
I reached for the jelly.
He didn’t slather his toast with grape jelly because he didn’t eat it.
That jar of jelly was probably there from when I was there (unless Cheyenne ate jelly, which I found doubtful considering her size four ass).
I wondered if it was still good.
Since I had a cast iron stomach and an aversion to plain toast, I didn’t wonder long and dug into the jar.
“How did the sitting go with Dream?” he asked his plate.
Okay, yeah.
Okay, right.
We were friends.
Friends shared.
