Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Emily
The clatter of metal on metal drags me from sleep, followed by the unmistakable scent of burnt toast drifting down the hall to my bedroom.
I bolt upright, heart hammering in panic. No one should be in my kitchen. No one should be in my house. The digital clock on my nightstand blinks in angry red accusation, telling me I slept until after nine in the morning for the first time in a decade.
Then a muffled curse floats down the hall, followed by the sound of running water, and the events of yesterday crash back into focus.
Jared. I brought the young Alpha home last night, and now he’s setting my kitchen on fire.
I throw back the covers and grab my flannel robe from the hook behind the door, cinching it tight around my waist. The floor creaks beneath my bare feet as I hurry out into the hallway amid another clatter, like a pan on the stovetop.
My pace quickens as I move down the hall, morning sunlight filtering through the front windows, dust motes dancing in golden beams across the living room. I should already have the sourdough in the oven and four rows of crocheting done by this time of day.
The acrid bite of something burning fills the air, and I pause at the kitchen doorway, breath catching in my throat at the scene before me.
Jared stands at my stove, his broad back to me as he hunches over a smoking pan. His hair sticks up in messy curls, still flattened on one side from sleep. He wears the same borrowed gray T-shirt and sweatpants from last night, the fabric soft from years of washing.
One of my dish towels hangs from his back pocket, another clutched in his hand as he tries to wave away a thin cloud of smoke.
His shoulder blades tense, awareness prickling up his spine as he senses my presence. When he turns, the spatula clatters on the edge of the pan, nearly falling as his fingers fumble to hang on to it.
“Morning.” The greeting catches in his throat, rough with sleep. The bruising across his face has darkened overnight, and the medical tape stands out stark white across his swollen nose. “I wanted to… um… thank you. For yesterday.”
He gestures at the stove with the spatula, sending a piece of egg flying to the floor. “I thought breakfast might be… But your stove heats up faster than I expected. And your toaster has different settings than I’m used to.”
Two plates wait on the counter beside him, each holding a slice of blackened toast.
“You didn’t have to,” I say faintly.
“I know.” His sea-glass green eyes drop to the piece of egg on the floor, then back to my face. “But I wanted to. You saved me.”
The earnest hope on his face, combined with the embarrassment of failing, tugs at my heart. I remain in the doorway, fingers gripping the frame to anchor me as a tide of emotions rises in my throat.
No one has ever made me breakfast before.
Not Auren, who expected coffee waiting when he woke. Not any of the other Alphas he brought into our pack, who treated the kitchen as my domain, a place where I served rather than was served.
The realization sits heavy in my stomach.
All those years of early mornings, of measuring coffee grounds and warming milk to the perfect temperature, of slicing fruit and toasting bread, of setting everything out before anyone else was awake.
Years of caring for others who never once thought to return the gesture.
And now, this young Alpha stands in my kitchen, surrounded by the evidence of his failed attempt to do something kind for me.
My throat tightens, and I swallow hard, gesturing toward the stove. “It’s burning.”
“Shit.” Jared spins back to the pan, lifting it off the burner. “Sorry. I can clean this up and start over. Or we can go out. Or you can pretend this never happened, and I’ll hide in the guest room until the security appointment.”
His panic breaks through my paralysis, and I step into the kitchen, the tile floor cold beneath my bare feet.
“It’s fine,” I say, moving closer. My palm settles on the solid counter to steady myself. “You don’t need to hide.”
He scrapes the spatula across the stainless-steel pan, attempting to dislodge something from the bottom. “I made a mess of your kitchen.”
“You did,” I agree, studying the contents of the pan. Half the eggs are scrambled, while the other half are only a step above charcoal. “But I appreciate the thought.”
The simple admission costs more than it should. Gratitude has never come easy to me, not after years of having it thrown back in my face or dismissed as expected.
Jared’s face brightens, despite the bruising. “Really?”
My chest constricts at his eagerness, at how little it takes to make him light up. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, wincing when the movement jostles his injured nose.
“Did you take your medicine?” I ask, changing the subject before the moment can deepen.
“Right after I woke up. With crackers, like you said.”
The domesticity of the conversation settles over me like a weight. This is what normal people do, I think. They wake up, make breakfast, and talk about their morning routines. They exist in shared spaces without calculating every word and movement.
I reach for the pan, slipping it from his grasp. “Let me show you how the stove works.”
It’s easier than acknowledging the way my pulse races, or how the simple act of someone trying to cook for me has cracked open the walls I built after Auren left.
The pan sizzles as I set it in the sink. “Let’s start over. Fetch the eggs from the fridge.”
His warm gaze traces over me, as if he reads my confusing reaction to him hidden behind my practiced calm. “Anything else I should get out?”
My tongue sweeps over my bottom lip in consideration. “There’s a basket in there, too. Pull it out so we can get the bread in the oven.”
“We don’t need to let it rise more?” he asks as he bustles away.
“No, it should have risen enough overnight.” I slide a fresh pan onto the stovetop and pop a large clay cloche into the oven to get nice and hot while the oven preheats.
I wash out the bowl he used to scramble the first round of eggs while resisting the urge to take over. Instead, I dry the bowl and pass it to him, earning another one of those excited smiles that catches me off guard.
He cracks the eggs, fishing out the few shells slipping into the bowl when he taps them too hard.
I clear my throat. “Get the pan heating on medium-low while you whisk the eggs.”
The bowl clatters onto the countertop, and I wince as he hurries to the range, cranking on the burner.
“Lower,” I instruct.
He adjusts the knob to the right setting.
“Perfect.”
While it heats, he whips the eggs, then adds a pat of butter to the pan.
I pass him a rubber spatula and step up beside him as he pours in the eggs. “Now, keep the spatula moving the eggs around. Small curds will start to form as the eggs heat.”
A red flush creeps up his neck, but he keeps his focus on the pan, stirring until the eggs come together.
I lean closer to check the progress. “You want to pull them off while they’re still a little wet. They’ll keep cooking for a few more minutes.”
His spatula slows, his head turning toward me, and I realize I’m purring. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Is this good?”
“Yeah.” I step back and grab the basket of bread dough as the oven dings. “Plate them up while I get the bread into the oven.”
Jared hovers at my elbow, peppering me with questions about the process, while I pull the hot cloche from the oven and transfer the dough from the boule.
I give him simple explanations at first, but when he seems genuinely interested, I open up more about steam and oven spring.
We settle at the small kitchen table, and Jared cuts off the worst of the burnt edges. “Sorry about the toast. I swear I can cook better than this when I’m more familiar with the appliances.”
I take a bite of perfectly scrambled eggs piled onto my bread slice, which I softened with more butter. “It’s fine.”
He studies me for a beat, searching for the lie, but I keep my expression neutral. The food isn’t terrible, and the effort behind it matters more than I want to admit.
He shifts in his chair, reaching for his water glass. The borrowed T-shirt stretches across his shoulders, the collar askew where he tugged at it earlier. His hair has settled somewhat, though one section near his crown still stands at attention.
His gaze wanders around the kitchen, taking in the copper pots hanging above the island, the jars of dried herbs along the windowsill, and the wooden spoons I carved during last winter’s storms.
“Where’s your cat?” he asks out of nowhere. “I noticed the carrier in your truck yesterday, and the picture in your living room, but I couldn’t find her when I got up this morning.”
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth before I set it down with care. “She’s not here.”
Jared tilts his head with curiosity. “Is she at a friend’s house? Or the vet?”
I press my fingers against the edge of the table as the contentment of the morning vanishes. “Mixie isn’t with me anymore. Auren took her when he left.”
Jared’s brow furrows in confusion. “Who’s Auren?”
“My ex.” The words sour on my tongue. “We were…together for a long time.”
It sounds so much less than an entire decade of my life spent on one man who then tossed me aside.
Understanding dawns, followed by anger. “He took your cat when you broke up?”
“Yeah.” My throat tightens around words I’ve never said aloud. “I was the one who wanted a pet. He didn’t care either way, but I’d always wanted a cat. Something to take care of that wasn’t work.”
I’d found Mixie at the shelter, a half-grown kitten with one torn ear filled with suspicion. She’d hissed at everyone except me, and I’d felt an instant connection, certain we belonged together.
“I paid the adoption fee. Bought all her things. Took her to every vet appointment.” My fingers trace a pattern in the condensation left by my water glass. “She slept on my pillow every night.”