Page 28 of Thrown into the Mob

He picked up two slices of bread and studied the toaster. “Hmmm, it might be easier if I let my dragon do it.”

I grabbed him, yelling, “Don’t,” thinking the place was going up in flames and me along with it. With one hand on either arm, I was overcome with his scent, which overwhelmed the aroma of sizzling bacon, and his firm muscles under my grip. I gulped because my face was so close to his and I was staring at his lips.

“Ummm, it was a joke?” He said it like he wasn’t sure.

“Oh.” I had to let him go, but as awkward as it was to be holding him, it would be more so to stop and move away, aware of what I’d just done.

“Ummm, should I put the bread in the toaster?” The pieces were dangling from his hands.

I pulled away but noted how Conrad shivered when my fingers caressed the soft sweatshirt. His chest heaved as he breathed in deeply, and I dropped my gaze, not wanting to witness what might’ve been in his eyes.

“I’ll try not to burn them.” He was smirking when I looked up.

“Another joke?”

He nodded. Okay, I’d have to get used to dragon humor.

We moved around the small kitchen, and though it was big enough so we wouldn’t bump into each other, his arm skimmed over mine when he reached for a plate, and the contact sent a jolt through me, and I almost dropped the eggs on the floor.

“The toast’s burning.” I flapped a dishrag, not wanting the smoke detector to go off. “And that’s not a joke.”

“Oops.” His cheeks reddened as I explained the setting was too high.

He rescued it and held it up. The edges were black, but the middle was salvageable. “Perfect toast for a dragon.”

“That’s odd because that’s how I like my toast too, but my folks and brother prefer it golden brown.”

“We were meant to be.” He froze, and his eyes flicked toward me.

Since we’d been in the kitchen, I would have described him as giddy. I’d caught a glimpse of the man underneath the outer shell.

“Sorry, I was making a toast joke.”

“I get it. Will they feature in our future? Toast jokes?” Now it was my turn to squirm. I’d mentioned a time after today. He put his fingers to his lips as if he didn’t want to blurt out anything else. But I jumped in saying, “Not that we know what lies ahead.”

I busied myself flipping the eggs and asking Conrad to get the plates.

We ate at the kitchen island because the dining table felt too formal for two people who barely knew one another. After cleaning up, I messaged Flint, asking when he was coming, but Hunter replied, saying Alpha wouldn’t get to us until the evening.

I wasn’t used to hanging out, doing nothing, especially with a mate. But the buzzer rang and saved me starting a new conversation that wasn’t about toast.

Conrad was on his feet, and his body had gone rigid. I guessed he was determining the threat and checking out the escape routes, though I was sure he’d done that the moment we arrived last night.

“It's okay,” though I didn't know that. I pressed the intercom.

“Madd, open up. This lasagna isn't going to carry itself.” Grandpa's voice crackled through the speaker.

I buzzed him in, and when I opened the door, Grandpa walked in carrying two enormous foil trays and a canvas bag that clanked with jars and containers. And behind him was Rudy, Flint’s dad.

Knowing Rudy’s history, a stranger might expect him to be bowed down with the fate the universe had handed him. But he was bright, bubbly, loving, and loyal. He couldn’t cook worth a damn, and he loved wearing bright colors, the louder the better, as if he was saying he refused to be defined by what had happened to him.

“Grandpa, we just ate breakfast.”

“What? At this hour?”

Rudy hugged me and told Grandpa not to be such a fuddy-duddy. “Besides, they’re newly mated. They’re not getting up early.”

Oh gods, embarrassing. I refused to look at Conrad, but Rudy was introducing himself and dragging information from him about his family while Grandpa fussed in the kitchen.