Realizing resistance was futile, she leaned a hip against the black granite counter not far from the stove. “Two, please. What can I do to help?”
Jackson opened the fridge, his biceps stretching the sleeves of his shirt as he took out a carton of eggs, a few bags of veggies, a small brick of cheese, and packages of ham and bacon. “You can brew some coffee while I work on the omelets. Coffee’s in the freezer and mugs are in the cupboard by the fridge.”
While he worked at the stove, Essie got the coffee brewing, and by the time the pot was full, the air was thick with the mouthwatering scents of breakfast. As she filled two mugs, Jackson slid the first omelet out of the pan and onto one of the plates his mother had given them as a wedding gift. It was the same routine they’d shared when they were married, and the sense of familiarity both put her at ease and made her uncomfortable.
Jackson placed two sizzling strips of bacon beside the omelet and handed her the plate. “Go ahead and eat. It’s best when it’s hot. I’ll join you at the table in a minute.”
With the plate in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other, she moved to the bar that separated the kitchen from the living room and took the seat that offered a view of a backyard shaded by massive oaks and adjacent to a densely wooded tract of land. A bird feeder hung from a pole, where a trio of titmouses—or was it titmice?—took turns gorging on seeds.
Essie took a bite of her breakfast and nearly moaned out loud. There were reasons she hadn’t eaten an omelet in years. One, she wanted her jeans to still fit and two, no one could make an omelet quiet like Russell Jackson. Light and fluffy, with just the perfect amount of sharp cheddar cheese, it practically melted in her mouth. It summoned memories of happier times, before everything came crashing down.
Jackson slid the second omelet onto a plate, this one bigger than the one he made for her, along with a mountain of crispy, hot bacon, grabbed the second coffee mug, and joined her at the bar. He sat at the end, and while she appreciated the space, a part of her that she refused to acknowledge wished he’d chosen the seat beside her.
She stole a glance at him, and this time she couldn’t blame the vodka for the way her pulse jumped. “This is delicious. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He smiled as he reached for his coffee. One sip and his eyes went wide. Not saying a word, he got up and went to the fridge for milk.
“Sorry. I forgot you don’t like it that strong.”
“That’s okay. I forgot you made it that strong.”
Truth be told, she’d never been much of a cook. With her mother working long hours at the salon and her father out doing God knew what, she’d grown up eating cereal for breakfast, peanut butter sandwiches for lunch, and whatever leftovers that happened to be in the fridge for dinner. As an adult, she mostly ate out, ordered in, or stuck with simple meals that required minimal preparation.
Jackson poured milk in his coffee, took a sip, and then added so much sugar it was a wonder the mug didn’t overflow. “So what are your plans for Vaughn and the woman?”
She held up a finger while she finished chewing a bite of food, and then washed it down with a swig of coffee. “No firm plans yet, but I have a few tactical goals and a general approach.”
“And what would those entail?”
“Locate the target. Convince her to hole up in a secure, undisclosed location. Once she’s safe, I can start the hunt for Vaughn and what’s left of the Russian team.”
Jackson reclaimed his seat and picked up his fork. “That won’t take the price off her head.”
“I know. One problem at a time.”
Contract killing didn’t work like it did in the movies. TheJohn Wickfilms were thrilling entertainment and a lot of fun to watch, but they didn’t resemble anything remotely close to reality. Though it happened on occasion, it was uncommon for multiple assassins to be awarded the same contract for the same person. True, it worked well as a motivating factor, as well as a way to narrow the kill window, but like two prides of lions hunting the same gazelle, it didn’t take much for two apex predators to come into conflict with each other.
Protecting the woman would be challenging enough. Removing the price on her head would be even more difficult, and devising a strategy would largely depend on the identity of the contract holder. She hadn’t figured out how she was going to uncover that particular nugget of information. Assassins often worked through a host of intermediaries, not only to shield their identity, but the identity of whomever hired them. Communications ran through burner phones and temporary email addresses, while payments were routed through numbered accounts in foreign countries that were reluctant to share information with US law enforcement. It would take a lot of digging, and a large degree of luck, to uncover who wanted Petrov dead.
Essie ate the last of her breakfast and eyed the dwindling mound of bacon on Jackson’s plate. Back when they were married, they used to play this little game, where she said she only wanted two slices of bacon, but then she’d swipe an extra slice or two from his plate and he’d pretend not to notice.
Those days were over. Now she only got two slices.
“Go ahead,” Jackson said, as if reading her thoughts. “I made extra in case you wanted more.”
“No, I’m okay. Thanks anyway.”
He made a low, rough noise that vibrated through every cell in her body. “Come on, you know you want some. When’s the last time you indulged?”
She hadn’t indulged in much of anything since the ink dried on their divorce papers. Get up. Go to work. Eat. Drink. Sleep. Repeat. She’d hoped the routine would give her the stability she needed to piece her life back together, but the only thing it had managed to do was create a rut she couldn’t seem to crawl out of.
Looking up, she caught Jackson’s gaze, and his eyes focused on her with an intensity that turned her insides to jelly.
“We had some good times together, didn’t we?” he asked.
“You know the answer to that question.”
His mouth curved up on one side. “Would it kill you to say it?”
