Page 22 of Broken Cedar

“It’s blackberry preserves. From the bushes by the creek.”

I stop chewing. The creek. Of course. The place I haven’t been to yet because I’m a coward. “You picked these?” I ask.

“Last summer.” He sits across from me, his plate twice the size of mine. “Made a bunch. Your Mom likes it.”

I stare at him. This man who makes jam. Who gets up early to cook breakfast for people who aren’t even awake yet. The strangest part isn’t that Colt can cook. It’s that he seems completely comfortable doing it. Like this has always been who he is now, and I’m the one who’s been frozen in time.

“You’re ridiculous,” I say, and I’m smiling. I can feel it.

“Guessing it’s better than anything you’ve ever made.”

“Untrue. I make a mean microwave pizza.”

He snorts. It’s the most undignified sound I’ve ever heard come out of him, and it makes me laugh. Colt is looking at me, his fork paused halfway to his mouth, and there’s something in his eyes I can’t quite name.

“What?” I say.

“Nothing.” He goes back to eating. “Just…you laugh the same.”

We eat in silence for a minute. Through the open window, I hear horses moving in the paddock.

“So,” I say, because I can’t help myself. “What’s the plan for today? Fences to mend? Horses to torture?”

“Stock to check. South pasture needs attention.” He drains his coffee. “You got plans?”

“Besides avoiding my emails? Not really.”

“Your Mom won’t be back till later.” He says it like it’s nothing. Like he’s commenting on the weather. But the air between us shifts. Thickens. Because we both know what that means.

“I know,” I say. Colt takes another bite of his eggs, and says nothing.

We finish breakfast in comfortable silence. Colt stands and takes both our plates to the sink, then washes them and sets them on the rack.

“Thanks for breakfast,” I say.

He shrugs. “Was making it anyway.”

“Still. Thank you.”

He turns, leans against the counter, and looks at me. And for a second, I think he’s going to say something nice. Instead, he says, “You’ve got jam on your chin.”

I hastily wipe at it. “Shut up.”

“Never could eat without making a mess.”

I throw a dish towel at him. He catches it one-handed, doesn’t even flinch, and the gesture is so familiar. He hangs the towel on the oven handle, looks at the clock, then looks at me.

“I should get moving,” he says, but he doesn’t move. Colt’s eyes haven’t left mine.

“Mom’s gone,” I say softly. “For hours, probably.”

“I know.” His voice is rough.

“We could…” I trail off. Because saying it out loud still feels dangerous. Even after our agreement.

“We could,” he agrees, watching me.

There’s a beat of silence. Then Colt steps forward. One step. Two. He’s in front of me now, close enough that I can smell coffee on his breath. He places his hands on my waist. His thumbs settle into the curve above my hips, and my stomach tightens.