Page 37 of Chasing Amanda

He set the drink down and stepped toward her. “You heard, then?”

“How did you?”

“My CO called.”

“Oh.” She snatched a paper towel from a roll on the counter and wiped her eyes “They were both killed in alleys. That would’ve been me, Thursday. They were both blond-haired and blue-eyed, just like me.”

“I didn’t hear that part.”

“The detective says the guy doesn’t stand a chance at getting bail. I guess the only question is, who gets to prosecute him first?”

“Do you care?”

“No. As long as he goes to jail forever.”

Mark pulled her into a hug. “I was impressed with you this morning, venturing out by yourself.”

She leaned back to meet his eyes. “I knew I was safe. I can’t let this derail my whole life, right?”

“Still, it was very brave.”

They looked at each other a moment longer, nothing but the crackle of bacon filling the silence.

She turned back to the stove. “I’d better…”

He got out of her way, and she stirred the potatoes, flipped the bacon, then whisked some eggs. “Do you like mushrooms?”

“Sure.”

She poured the eggs into a big pan, then lifted each piece of bacon onto a paper towel-covered plate. She set the plate in front of him, so he snagged a piece and took a bite.

Salty and perfectly crisped. “Delicious.”

“Thanks.” She tended the eggs. “Sealy wants you to call him.”

“I will, in a bit.” He took another bite.

She twisted toward him. “And my parents want to talk to you.”

He almost choked on his bacon, gulped the coffee, scalding his tongue. “Your parents? Why?”

Her eyebrows lifted, amusement playing around her mouth. “I told them what happened. I guess they want to thank you.”

“Oh. Okay.” What in the world would he say? Wasn’t it too soon to meet the parents?

He stood, needed to do something and feeling like a fool for being so nervous. “Can I set the table?”

“Help yourself.”

He found the plates and silverware, then added salt, pepper, and a jar of salsa from the fridge.

While Mark ate his breakfast—an omelet, fried potatoes, bacon, and toast, and if he hadn’t already fallen for her, the meal would have pushed him over the edge—Amanda moved food around on her plate. For someone who wanted to be a chef, she sure didn’t eat much.

But she did make small talk, and he loved listening to her, the lilt of her voice, the Massachusetts accent he guessed had been softened by summers in Florida the last few years with her parents. She talked about their house, which was within walking distance of Satellite Beach, and her brothers and their wives, who’d all moved south as well. She talked about how her parents were always talking up the wonders of their new home state.

“I know they want me to move there, but I’m not going to. I like it here.”

“They’ll probably understand.” His father would, and her parents sounded like reasonable people. He added, “I don’t need their thanks.” Maybe he could get out of calling them.