Chapter 8
Seth
One second, Olive was staring up at me with those big, brown eyes, and the next she had slipped past like she owned the place, Bunny in hand, her rain boots squeaking against my hardwood floors.
I stood there with my coffee, watching Olive, still trying to process how quickly Madison had gone from homelessness due to the damage of her house, to standing on my front porch.
She lingered on the steps like she’d rather chew glass than follow her daughter inside.
Typical Madison Cole, stubborn as hell. Some things never changed.
“Guess you’re stuck now,” I told her, because teasing her was second nature.
She rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath, but she came in anyway.
Olive was already halfway up on one of the barstools, Bunny tucked under her arm like it was supervising breakfast. “Do you have pancakes?” she asked again, kicking her little heels against the stool.
“No pancakes,” I said, reaching for a skillet. “Eggs, cereal… maybe toast if you’re not picky.”
She grinned like I’d offered her a five-star menu. “Scrambled, please.”
I scrambled a couple of eggs in the pan while Madison hovered like I was performing heart surgery. She had her arms crossed, shoulders tight, every part of her screaming that she didn’t want to be here.
“Relax, sweetheart,” I said, flicking my wrist as the eggs sizzled. “It’s just breakfast, not a binding contract.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t call me that.”
“Still hate it, huh?”
“Some things never change,” she muttered, brushing wisps of hair off her face.
“Do you ever stop arguing?” I asked, grabbing a spatula from the drawer.
“Do you ever stop being wrong?” Madison shoots back at me, crossing her arms over her chest as she glares.
I smirked, but Olive cut through the tension, leaning on the counter. “Can Bunny have some too?”
I set the spatula down and looked at her seriously. “Depends. Does Bunny like his eggs fluffy or runny?”
Her giggle filled the whole kitchen. “Fluffy.”
“Well then,” I said, flipping the eggs, “Bunny has good taste.”
I slid the scrambled eggs onto a plate, dropped a piece of toast next to it, and set it in front of Olive. She dug in with her tiny fork, humming with approval.
Madison, meanwhile, was still standing like a soldier on duty. She hadn’t even taken her jacket off.
“You planning to eat standing up the whole time?” I asked, leaning on the counter.
She gave me a sharp look. “We’re not staying long. Just until I figure out something else.”
“Right,” I drawled, sipping my coffee. “Because your house with the caved-in roof is prime real estate right now.”
Her jaw tightened. “I’ll manage.”
That old fire of hers sparked again, the same one that used to grate on me when we were younger. Except now, with her kid sitting at my counter smiling like breakfast at my place was the best thing to happen all week… it didn’t grate. It did something else.
“Look,” I said, softer than I intended, “it’s a guesthouse, Madison. You’re not putting me out.”
Her eyes flicked up to mine, quick and guarded, like she didn’t know what to do with me not being an ass for once.
Olive swung her legs, crumbs scattered across the counter, completely oblivious. “This is good,” she said through a mouthful. “Can we have it tomorrow too?”
I glanced at Madison, raising an eyebrow. She let out a long sigh and finally slid into the stool beside her daughter.
“Don’t get used to it,” she told Olive.
But the way her shoulders dropped just a little? The way she stole a piece of toast from Olive’s plate when she thought I wasn’t looking? Yeah. Maybe they were staying longer than she wanted to admit.