Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
Emmersyn
The smell of coffee hits me first as I step into the kitchen, still feeling the warmth of the shower clinging to my skin. Zoe is seated at the table, cradling baby Emma in her arms, her expression one of pure contentment as she feeds her daughter. Max is standing by the refrigerator, staring into its depths like it might hold the secrets of the universe.
“Morning,” I say, making a beeline for the coffee pot. “Need some help?”
Max glances over his shoulder, his brow furrowed as he tries to figure out breakfast. “You cook?”
“Somehow, I’m offended by your question,” I reply, raising an eyebrow. Maybe, like Caleb, he assumes I’m just some rich, spoiled princess who’s never set foot in a kitchen.
Zoe chuckles, though she looks tired, a blissful kind of tired. “Oh, he asks because, according to him, I’m terrible in the kitchen. He swears he was a chef in another life.”
“Well, I do cook, and I make the best omelets you’ll ever have,” I say with a grin, grabbing an apron and tying it around my waist. “Mom always said breakfast was the most important meal of the day. She’d make a full spread every morning—pancakes, eggs, bacon, you name it. I guess I picked up a few things along the way.
Zoe looks up, smiling warmly at me. “That sounds nice. I can barely manage to pour cereal in a bowl these days.”
“Well, you’re keeping a tiny human alive, so I think you’re doing just fine,” I say, giving her a reassuring smile. Then glance at Max. “Mind if I take over?”
Max steps aside. “Be my guest. Pancakes are not my forte.”
I take charge of the kitchen, moving with practiced ease as I whip up a batch of fluffy pancakes, adding eggs to the skillet on the side. The rhythmic sizzle of the food and the scent of vanilla and butter fill the air, creating a comforting atmosphere that reminds me of home.
“So you always had these elaborate breakfasts growing up?” Zoe asks, curiosity laced in her tone .
“Nah, not always,” I reply, flipping a pancake with a flourish. “Sometimes it was biscuits with gravy, or French toast, or pancakes like these. When she was running late, she’d throw together some oatmeal or something quick and simple. But she always believed in starting the day off right, no matter what. Even when she was in a hurry, she made sure we sat down together for breakfast.”
Somehow, I my miss Mom more than usual today. It’s a deep, aching kind of missing—the kind that settles in your chest and doesn’t let go. She would never have let anything bad happen to me. She wouldn’t have let my grandmother treat me the way she treated her. I think Gertrude loved me, but she also wanted me to pay for what Mom did—sleeping with a guy, getting pregnant, and tarnishing the Langley name.
Mom had to marry Charles, who accepted me as his own, and for the first six years, he was a great father. But he wasn’t a good husband, not by a long shot. He cheated on my mom with other women. The day he got caught, and my grandparents forced him to divorce her, he used me to hurt her. For days, maybe even months, I cried because of how cruel he was to me. He said things that still sting my soul, things I’ve tried to forget but never really could.
I’m lost in thought, stirring the eggs absentmindedly when Caleb’s voice snaps me back to the present. “Hey, why don’t you let me handle the rest? You’ve already done more than enough.”
I blink, not entirely sure why he’s suddenly offering to help. I mean, this is the same guy who once burned toast and called it ‘rustic.’ “You’re going to handle the rest?” I ask, raising an eyebrow in playful skepticism.
He nods, grabbing the spatula from my hand with a grin. “ Yep. I can flip a pancake or two without setting the kitchen on fire. You can sit down, relax, and maybe stop zoning out before you burn something.”
I smirk, crossing my arms and leaning against the counter. “I’m not zoning out. I’m just . . . multitasking in my head.”
“Right,” he teases, giving me a side-eye. “And what exactly were you ‘multitasking’ on? World peace? Solving global hunger?”
“Something like that,” I say with a shrug, trying to keep the mood light. “But I suppose I can let you take over, as long as you promise not to ruin my perfectly good breakfast.”
Caleb chuckles, flipping a pancake with an exaggerated flourish. “The meal is safe with me, princess. This is going to be the best breakfast you’ve ever had—just you wait.”
“Princess, huh?” I laugh, finally giving in and taking a seat. “I’ll hold you to that, Mr. Rustic Toast.”
“Hey, that toast had character,” he quips, shooting me a wink as he expertly flips another pancake.
And just like that, the heaviness in my chest lifts a little, replaced by . . .something I can’t quite put my finger on. This isn’t the Caleb I’m used to, and while it feels safe, there’s a part of me that wonders if he’s just biding his time, waiting for the right moment to strike. I can’t help but put on a fa?ade, pretending everything’s fine—especially with his friends here. It’s easier to play along than to confront the unease that lingers beneath the surface.