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I wake to the smell of pancakes, which has me second-guessing if I’m actually dreaming. Because why would the delicious buttery scent of pancakes be wafting through my home?
My confusion is most pronounced when I first wake, so I’m not a morning person. It takes me a few seconds to remember where I am and, most frightening, who I am. But this morning is different, clearer. And I know that has everything to do with last night.
I may not remember a great deal, but I’ll never forget the look on Cayden’s face as his stone walls finally crumbled. Swathed in quietude, he peered at the lake with a hand pressed to his recently kissed cheek. The sight made me feel at peace.
Cayden keeps his cards close to his chest, but on the rarest of occasions, when he lowers his guard and allows me in, what I see rouses me in ways I can’t explain. When my cell chimes on the nightstand, I realize I am awake, which means someone is making me breakfast. I can’t wipe the smile clean.
Reaching for my phone, I don’t bother to look at the screen and answer with a vigorous, “Hello.” My mood soon sours when the caller speaks.
“Oh, you’re awake? I thought you’d be unconscious after last night.”
I take a moment to gather my thoughts. “Then why did you bother calling?”
Silence. A short, uncomfortable clearing of a throat. A small win for me.
“Because regardless of the decisions you make and the company you insist on keeping, I am your mother, and I love you.”
Barely holding back my retch, I sigh because she doesn’t need to spell it out. Stella is having me followed, which explains why I’ve constantly been looking over my shoulder. I should be surprised, but sadly, I’m not. “Call off your watchdog. I moved here for a sense of normalcy. That’s hard to do when you’ve hired someone to lurk in the shadows, ready to report everything back to you. If you want to know something, all you have to do is ask.”
“What would be the point? You don’t listen to me anyway.” She lets out a tiny sniffle, and I raise my eyes to the heavens. “Peyton, I know you can’t remember…but, sweetheart, going to places in that part of town will only lead to trouble.”
“I think you mean embarrassment for the Lane name. If anyone saw me venturing over to the dark side, God forbid, your membership to the country club would be revoked.” Even though my comment is dripping with sarcasm, that doesn’t deter Stella in the slightest.
“Why do you insist on hurting me?”
“This may come as a surprise, but my world does not revolve around you. Seeing as no one will tell me the truth, I have no other choice but to search for it myself. So I will come and go as I please.” Rant over.
Stella is quiet, which is never a good sign. She can deny it all she wants, but I know she’s picking and choosing what information she shares with me. She’s hoping the things she doesn’t want me to uncover, like my talent for drawing, will remain lost in a past I’ll never remember.
“Come over for dinner next Saturday.”
“Excuse me?” I can’t keep the surprise from my tone because it’s the last thing I expected her to say, especially after the earful I just served.
“I have a surprise for you. I was going to wait until you were ready, but it appears that is no longer an option. I’ll invite your brothers and sisters. I’ll see you then.” She doesn’t give me time to reply before she hangs up, making it clear this isn’t negotiable.
Long after she ends the call, I sit still, wondering what exactly this surprise might be. An ominous heaviness lays in my chest as I can’t help but think that any surprise from Stella can’t be good.
The rattling of dishes in the kitchen reminds me that someone, who I hope is Cayden, is making me breakfast. Kicking off my blankets, I stand, wondering if I should put on a robe since my sleepwear doesn’t leave much to the imagination.
He’s seen me in a lot less, but I decide to slip into a pair of shorts and a tank. Even though it’s early, the summer sun is already at a punishing degree. I’m in for a hot, restless few days, thanks to no A/C.
Throwing back my messy waves into a high bun after brushing my teeth, I walk into the kitchen but come to a sudden stop in the doorway at the sight I’m greeted with. Cayden is indeed the one responsible for the aroma drifting through my home, but all that sweetness pales compared to the fact he’s not wearing a shirt while he’s cooking me pancakes.
He hums a tune under his breath as he’s working the stove like a whiz. When he shifts slightly to reach for the golden batter in the glass mixing bowl, he exposes his flank, adding to the appeal that is Cayden Coachman.
An intricate tattoo runs down his side, but there is no mistaking the image is that of a tree. An oak tree. He turns too quickly for me to examine it further, but my feet act of their own accord as I advance, desperate for a closer look.
My heavy footsteps alert Cayden of my arrival, and he looks over his shoulder. “Morning. I hope you don’t mind.” He holds up the silver utensil he’s using to flip the pancakes with a smile. When he sees me moving toward him like a starved zombie—but instead of brains, I want answers—he cocks an eyebrow in confusion.
His expression stops me in my tracks because Cayden’s being nice and letting down his impenetrable guard. If I continue beating a dead horse, these acts of kindness will stop, and after last night and now this morning, I feel like we’ve moved forward. And this feels nice. It feels normal.
So what, I reason with myself, if he has a tattoo of a tree. I’m sure a thousand other people do too. Just because it holds sentimental meaning to me doesn’t mean it does to him. I need to chill the fuck out and eat my damn pancakes.
Pushing aside my insanity, I shake my head once. “Mind? Are you kidding me? If you’re not careful, I’ll be asking you to make me a roast too.” Standing on tippy-toes to look over his broad shoulders, I can’t stop the laugh which escapes me. “Are we expecting company? Like the whole neighborhood, maybe?” The mountain of pancakes on the counter is enough to feed a small army.
A lopsided grin lights up his handsome face. “I didn’t know how hungry you’d be. And besides, it’s force of habit, I suppose.” There is no need for him to explain. He is accustomed to feeding a small army—his army.
“You won’t ever hear me complaining when food is involved. Can I help?”
“You can grab a couple of plates. And whatever toppings you want.”
Easy. I can do that.
He turns back around to tend to his sizzling creation while I stand on tippy-toes to reach into the cupboard. I grab the plates and then also pull out two mugs as he’s brewed a fresh pot of coffee. We work in unison, respecting one another’s space until we both turn around at the same time.
I take a moment. Actually, I need two.
