Chapter 12 Sydney
Sydney
Cuddled up, cozy and warm, Sydney rolled in her bed.
She wasn’t ready to be awake, but she smelled bacon.
The walls of her apartment weren’t all that thin, but when her neighbors cooked something delicious, it always made her stomach rumble.
What she wouldn’t give for a fat bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich.
Wait.
She had bacon. Opening her eyes, she grinned to herself. She didn’t have to suffer. The scent could come from her kitchen if she wanted it to. A nice BLT on toasted wheat bread would be an excellent start to her day.
Tossing her covers off, she sat up and swiveled so her feet hung over the side of her bed. Did she have tomatoes? Produce had a tendency to rot in her fridge when she bought it. Were the eggs good? She could dip the bacon into a runny yolk. That was just as tempting.
After a long stretch, she climbed out of bed.
Did Fink like bacon? She should’ve asked him what his favorite foods were last night. That would be useful information to have. Not that Sydney was all that good of a cook, but she got by. Running a hand over her stomach, she smirked. She certainly wasn’t starving.
Exiting her bedroom, she glanced past the table and into the small galley kitchen.
What the hell?
She took a few steps through the hall and toward the cooking area. Stopping in the archway, she put her hands on her hips.
Was this a dream? There was no way she saw what she thought she did.
“Good morning,” she greeted the man standing over her stove frying the delicious breakfast meat.
Still wearing the makeup from last night, albeit quite smudged, he turned and smiled. “Finally.”
She cocked her head to the side.
“You’re a heavy sleeper,” he commented as he scooped some strips from the pan and placed them onto a waiting paper-towel-covered plate. “I almost went in there to check if you were alive.”
She snickered.
It was nice to know he wasn’t considering killing her too. Interesting. She was a witness but also his accomplice.
They should work that out.
After breakfast.
“Did you sleep at all?” she asked as she entered the kitchen.
The space was small. There wasn’t much room for two people, but she wanted to get some orange juice.
He shook his head.
Then she noticed the mug on the counter. “You made coffee?”
“Didn’t you smell it?” he asked.
Obviously not. “Not over the bacon.”
“It’s probably cold,” he said. “But I can brew a fresh pot.”
Sydney was acutely aware everything about the last twelve hours was insane. The two of them were playing the part of two people who had lived together for months. They weren’t behaving like strangers who had met over a body and had fucked the night before.
Grinning to herself as she considered the absurdity of it all, she opened the fridge. She might as well roll with it. What other choice did she have?
“Orange juice first, then coffee.”
After pouring two glasses, she turned to see Fink plating an omelet. Where had he found the ingredients? What had he put in it? Her kitchen hadn’t seen this much action since she moved in.
Without looking up, he gestured to the table. “Have a seat.”
Oh. That wasn’t for him. How delightful.
With him behind her, she moseyed her way to the table. Oblivious to it before, she noted he’d cleared it off and set it for two. This man was downright domesticated. She wasn’t aware they still made those.
After depositing each glass before one setting, she took a seat opposite it, facing the kitchen. Fink dropped a plate before her. “Enjoy.”
“You’re not having any?” she asked.
He stepped back. “I still have to cook it. I’ll join you, but don’t wait for me.”
Glancing around, she noted her space was far tidier than when she’d gone to bed. The throw blankets she’d had strewn in balls on the couch were folded neatly. Her shelves had been dusted.
Furrowing her brow, she peered at him. “Did you clean?”
He surveyed the small apartment. “A little. There is only so much late-night TV one can watch. I might have to consult my doctor. Mesothelioma is going around. It’s apparently quite a lucrative affliction.”
She chortled in disbelief. This man was something else.
As he returned to the kitchen, she lifted her glass and sipped the citrus drink.
“So, how long will I be enjoying home-cooking and housekeeping?” she asked.
When would he take off that makeup? That question would have to wait. No matter how much she wanted to see the real him, there was a time and a place. He had to be comfortable.
Perhaps he had a port-wine stain across his face. Or maybe he concealed a hideous scar. She hadn’t really gotten a good look at his features. Things happened so quickly last night, but from what she could see, his skin was smooth.
What was underneath all that paint?
“I’m not sure,” he said from the other room. “It depends on the police and you.”
“What about them?” she asked, picking up a slice of cured meat and biting into it.
“Well, they’re going to question you.”
“Why?”
He peered at her from the kitchen with a spatula in hand. “You were employed there.”
“Previously,” she corrected. “I resigned.”
“As of when?”
“Last night.”
Shaking his head, he turned his attention back to the frying pan on her stove. “Yeah, that’s not suspicious or anything.”
“It was a hostile working environment.” Though, in the end it was far worse for Mitchell than it had ever been for her.
Oops.
“What does that mean?”
“There were rumors about me sleeping with Mitchell,” she grumbled as she shifted in her chair. “Combine that with the fact that there were no opportunities for advancement, I figured why stick around?”
He hummed as he cooked.
“So I sent my resignation, went to check that he got it, and bam.” She clapped her hands together. “You.”
“They’re definitely going to want to talk to you,” Fink said knowingly.
She hadn’t thought about that—Mitchell’s murder on the same day she quit. She supposed that didn’t look good. Pursing her lips, she brought her glass to them as she considered what to do.
The police had never interrogated her before. As an adult, her experience with them was limited to a few traffic stops here and there. Nothing to get excited about.
Her youth, on the other hand, was a different story. However, she’d never been in an interrogation room before. This was her first murder, after all.
Shifting her focus toward him, she decided the best course of action was to consult the expert.
“What should I say?” she asked.
After he flipped the eggs, he sighed. “Not much. Especially when they first come knocking. Stick to mostly truths. Tell them about why you quit and why you chose last night.”
She nodded and bit into another piece of bacon.
“Obviously, I’d appreciate if you didn’t mention me.” He turned and grinned.
Butterflies fluttered in her chest. Like a goofy teenager with a crush, she smiled right back.
“Keep it short and sweet,” he said as he poked at the food with the spatula. “And if the conversation goes too long, ask if you should call an attorney.”
A lawyer? Shit. This got complicated. She’d just quit her job.
While she had some money squirreled away, she wasn’t sure it was enough to cover life and an attorney.
She hadn’t considered cops and court and all that.
Then again, murdering her boss hadn’t been on her agenda either.
Damn. She wasn’t prepared for any of what she’d gotten herself into by giving in to her intrusive thoughts.
“If you stick to the basics, they should clear you quickly,” he assured.
Oh! He gave her an opening. She needed to pounce on it.
“Then what?”
Never in all her dating experience had she had the “where is this going” conversation with a guy twenty-four hours into meeting him, but here she was, doing it with Fink. She had lost her damn mind, but truly, they murdered together. All the rules were out the window.
He lifted a shoulder in a single shrug before he plated the fluffiest omelet she had ever seen. Well, aside from her own. “Go on with your life. I guess.”
Her heart pinched. She shouldn’t be worried about her relationship with Fink, but she had to ask. In the short time she’d gotten to know him, despite what little he had shared, she had grown fond of him. Who wouldn’t? The guy cooked and cleaned.
“Will you leave?” she pressed.