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Lyric smirks and crosses his arms. “What did you come up with, Charlotte?”
I squint at him, reluctant to answer. Last night, I watched him kill a man who threatened Milo and me, and I don’t regret it. Fortunately, I have an appointment with Sara next week to discuss that little tidbit.
“The jury is still out,” I tell him.
“Guess I’ll just have to prove it to you,” Lyric declares, getting up and taking my hand. He leads me back to the table.
Milo pauses with his spoon halfway to his mouth, watching us intently. His curious eyes follow our movements.
“Sit down and let me make you breakfast,” Lyric says, taking me by surprise. He’s playful, and I find myself strangely attracted to this side of him.
“She never eats breakfast,” Milo mutters, still observing us. “She usually has a liquid breakfast of coffee and creamer.”
“She doesn’t drink it black. Noted,” Lyric acknowledges as he pushes me into the chair. He starts rummaging through my cupboards for a coffee mug and finds my favorite one. Not all coffee mugs are created equal. This one has the right balance, texture, and weight. It features Audrey Hepburn—a classic choice.
Milo turns in his seat and shares one of my secrets. “Honey. She puts a teaspoon of honey in her coffee. She has a strange addiction to the stuff. There’s a whole honey basket in that cabinet.” He points it out, the little traitor.
Lyric takes note and places everything beside the almost ready coffee, then he checks the fridge and lets out a little grunt. “It’s empty.”
“Grocery day is Wednesday,” Milo states. “Today is Tuesday.”
Lyric turns around with an odd look on his face and a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. He’s contemplating filling my fridge.
“Don’t do it,” I warn, pointing at him. “No. I can buy my own groceries.”
“Is that so?” Lyric challenges, throwing open the fridge. “Top row—chocolate milk and regular milk. Not so bad. But there’s a whole side that’s empty.”
“It’s reserved for pickles,” I defend.
“The second row should have cheese and lunchmeat. It’s empty,” he points out. “And on the third row, you have these cute little fridge containers. One is full of chocolate.”
Milo watches our exchange with an amused smile.
“Those are my after-dinner snacks,” I protest.
Lyric continues his inventory. “This one has yogurt, the sugary kind, the third has one juice, this one is empty, and the last has a baggie of one single pepperoni. The fruit drawer is empty, and the veggie drawer has…” He reaches in and pulls out a baggie. “Is this a rotten cucumber?”
I can’t deny it. The cucumber he’s holding is indeed rotten and liquified. I wince at the sight.
Milo finds it amusing. “Check out the freezer.”
“I’m not sure I want to,” Lyric mutters, almost shutting the fridge before returning to me. “And there is no creamer.”
“Milk.” I point to the top shelf. “Milk,” I repeat.
He just blinks at me. “Milk is not creamer,” he scoffs. “You can technically make it into creamer, but you buy two percent.” He pulls it out and sets it on the counter, making me coffee first instead of rummaging through the freezer.
Milo, done with his cereal, takes it to the sink. He is so small in comparison to Lyric, yet Lyric doesn’t make him feel small. If Milo feels small next to an adult, he stands away from them as though stepping away will make him appear taller, but with Lyric, Milo steps right up, and Lyric pats him on the head.
“How do you know that?” Milo asks, genuinely curious.
“I grew up on a ranch,” Lyric replies lazily as he prepares my coffee, still giving the milk the stink eye.
“With Matty?” Milo questions as he rinses his bowl.
Lyric nods, handing me my coffee, which is absolutely perfect. Damn him. Did I see him put a little salt in there? How did salt make my coffee taste even more delicious?
“I did,” Lyric agrees. “Matty is older than me by two years. We used to milk our own cows, pick apples in the orchard, and even butcher our own meat.”
