She shoots me a look over her shoulder. “It’s fast, it’s good, and it’s impossible to screw up. Even you could make one.”
“Bold assumption.”
“Prove me wrong then.” She slides a spatula toward me on the counter, the challenge clear in her eyes.
I take it, stepping in close to reach for the bread she’s set out. Close enough that her hip brushes mine. She doesn’t move away, and neither do I.
“Careful,” she says lightly, though her voice dips just a little. “Burn it and I’ll never let you live it down.”
“Guess I’ll have to make it perfect then.”
The smell of butter hits the air, and for a moment it’s just the two of us, shoulder to shoulder in the quiet rhythm of cooking. Her arm bumps mine as she reaches for the plates, and I catch the small smile she tries to hide.
When we finally sit down at the table, the grilled cheese is golden and crisp, the coffee hot, and the air between us warmer than it was an hour ago.
“Not bad, Lawson,” she says after her first bite.
“High praise, Hart.”
Our eyes meet across the table, and it feels like the conversation we’re not having is louder than the one we are.
Chapter Eighteen
Damien
If I could freeze this moment, I would.
The sun slanting through the kitchen window, Damien leaning back in his chair, his dark hair still damp from the shower we took hours ago. The faint curl at the corner of his mouth when I tell him my sandwich is better than his.
It’s simple. Easy. Too easy.
And maybe that’s the problem.
Because every time I let myself sink into the comfort of this — of him — Colton’s voice cuts in like a crack in glass.Ask him about the night Aaron died. Ask him why he really left.
I take another bite of my sandwich to keep from saying something I’m not ready for.
Damien’s watching me, though. Always watching. Like he knows I’m holding something back but isn’t going to press. He just pours me more coffee, his fingers brushing mine when he slides the mug closer.
It’s such a small thing, but it makes my pulse trip. I’m supposed to be faking this. We’re supposed to be playing a part.But sitting here, the lines between real and pretend are blurring so fast I’m not sure they were ever that clear to begin with.
I look at him, really look, and my chest tightens. I remember every time I caught myself staring at him years ago, wondering what it would be like if he looked back at me the same way. Now he is — and it’s a dangerous thing.
I’m halfway through telling Damien about a ridiculous listener voicemail I got last week when the creak of the hallway floorboards makes me glance toward the doorway.
Mom stands there in her robe, her hair a little mussed, eyes darting between us like she’s walked into the wrong house.
“Mom,” I say softly. “You should be resting—”
Her gaze lands on Damien, and her expression changes in an instant — confusion sharpening into something else. Recognition. Hurt.
“You.” Her voice cracks on the word. “You were there. You werewith himthat night.”
The air in the kitchen turns cold.
Damien goes still, his coffee cup frozen halfway to the table. “Elaine—”
“You were supposed to take care of him,” she says, her voice rising. “You were supposed to bring him home.” Her hands are shaking now, and it’s the look in her eyes that does me in — like she’s seeing two ghosts instead of two men.
