Page 62 of Drowning in Darkness

His term of endearment makes my stomach flip. Does he call Daisy sweetheart? “I’m not a dog.”

His mouth threatens another smile.

I climb onto one of the stools lining the breakfast island, wincing as I lift myself onto it.

“I saw that.”

“I’ve decided ribs are overrated. I should have them removed. What are they for anyway?”

“They protect your organs.”

“Like my heart?”

He huffs a laugh as he crosses to a cupboard. Bread appears first. Butter follows. Jam. A kettle clicks on before he reaches into the fridge for orange juice.

I watch him work because there’s something strangely calming about someone moving around a kitchen they know so well. “You’ve done this before.”

“Eat? Yes, even kidnappers need sustenance.”

“No. Cook.”

“Occasionally.”

“I was expecting cereal.”

“I don’t own cereal.”

I gasp. “No Lucky Charms? Cinnamon Crunch?”

“No.”

“Not even emergency cereal?”

“I wasn’t aware cereal constituted an emergency.”

“It absolutely does. No respectable kidnapper should be without Froot Loops.”

He slides four slices of bread into the toaster. “I may have to educate you.”

I lean my chin on my fist and bat my lashes at him. “I’m trembling.”

He casts his gaze over my face and down my arm before ripping it away. “I can tell.”

The toast pops up a minute later. I debate whether I should tell him the weird way I enjoy my toast prepared, but decide not to push my luck. Not this hour, anyway. He snatches two pieces and arranges each slice to lean against the other to form a tent so the steam escapes.

I blink. He whistles as he prepares his coffee and my tea, but I can’t tear my eyes from the damn innocent toast tent.

He pushes a mug my way decorated with my favorite insect, the humble ladybug, then swipes a knife through the butter and snatches the first piece. My breath catches. He’s waited for the perfect moment—not too soon, not too late, but that just-right degree where the butter softens into the toast instead of melting straight through it. No one else does that, not that I’ve ever seen. He butters each slice right to the edges before adding strawberry jam to two of them, leaving the other plain. He places the plate in front of me.

I stare.

“What?”

“The toast.”

He glances down. “What about it?”

“You let it cool.”