Stephanie
TWENTY
The heart has strange ways of betraying itself. Mine started with breakfast.
The first thing I notice is that the ceiling isn’t the same one I fell asleep under.
I might have only been here one night, but I spent far too many hours staring at it, wishing things were different.
That I could fall in love without reservation, that my dreams of being swept off my feet were not a pipe dream.
White timber beams stretch overhead, crossed with thick oak darkened by age. For one disorienting second, I simply stare at them while my brain scrambles to remember where I am.
Then yesterday crashes back to me.
Christopher.
The shooting.
Camryn.
Our escape and the devastating knowledge that her boss is not above taking bribes from rich men.
James.
The lodge.
James.... I push myself upright, hissing as my ribs remind me that Melanie’s warning about taking it easy wasn’t a suggestion.
Sunlight spills through the curtains, bathing the room in soft gold. I swing my legs over the side of the high bed, and my feet brush against something.
No, not something, someone. My heart lurches hard enough to hurt before I register who it is.
James lies asleep on the floor beside the bed, one arm folded beneath his head, a blanket thrown haphazardly over him. The pillow has long since escaped somewhere behind his shoulder. He somehow manages to look asleep and on the verge of action.
I frown as I glance around. What on earth...
The guest room has a perfectly good bed, begging the question of how I ended up in his.
I glance between the mattress beneath me and the man occupying my floor.
Did I somehow steal his room? I study him a little longer, searching for the answer written somewhere on his face.
Nothing presents itself beyond the fact that his position cannot be comfortable.
A guilty knot settles low in my stomach.
He’s protecting me. The thought barely forms before I dismiss it.
James doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who makes grand gestures for applause.
If there’s a reason he’s sleeping on hardwood flooring instead of an actual mattress, it’s practical, not emotional.
But I can’t think what it is. I shuffle toward the end of the bed and place my socked feet on the floor. The floorboards creak beneath my weight, and his eyes spring open. One moment asleep, the next completely alert.
His hand snaps under the bedside table, and I find myself staring at the business end of a gun. His hand tightens around the handle before his gaze lands on me, and the tension disappears as quickly as it arrived.
“That’s a fine way to greet your abductee on her first morning,” I say with a too-bright smile.
“Morning,” he rumbles, letting his arm relax.
“Good morning.”
Silence settles between us while he drags a hand across his jaw and pushes himself upright.
I glance pointedly at the blanket. “You know, I rarely let people sleep on my bedroom floor.”
His eyebrow lifts. “No?”
“No. I feel it’s important to maintain standards. Keep firm kidnapper-kidnappee boundaries in order.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
I fold my arms. “Also, you’re stealing my bedroom floor real estate.”
Amusement softens his features. I think I like a just-awakened James a little too much. “I’ll submit a booking request next time.”
“Excellent. Include references.”
“I’ve got outstanding reviews.”
“I somehow doubt that.”
His mouth twitches. Dangerous. Who knew this man was capable of smiling before caffeine? Strike that—smiling at all.
“For the record, that’s technically my bed, and this is my floor space.”
Which brings me to the point at hand. “Why am I in your bed while you’re auditioning for the role of decorative rug?”
His gaze drops to the blanket before returning to me. “It made sense.”
I wait for him to elaborate. He waits longer. We stare at each other, a thousand words passing between us, a thousand words we’d never say aloud.
I sigh. “You do realize that’s not an explanation.”
“It answered the question.”
“No, it answered a completely different question. Mine started with ‘why.’”
A faint crease appears between his brows as though he’s genuinely considering whether I’m correct. “You looked comfortable.”
The words catch me off guard. “So your solution was to exile yourself to the floor?”
“It was unnecessary to wake you.”
There’s something in the way he says it that tells me this conversation has already reached the limit of what he’s prepared to share.
He’s protecting something. Whether that’s me or himself, I’m not entirely sure.
I glance down at the shirt hanging almost to my knees and then back at him.
“You know, when women steal a man’s shirt, it’s generally considered a milestone in the relationship. ”
“I’ll update the kidnapper handbook.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. “There really is a kidnapper handbook, isn’t there?”
“There are several.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“I imagine repeatedly.”
He pushes himself to his feet, rolling one shoulder as though sleeping on solid oak has finally introduced itself to his spine. “How are the ribs?” he checks.
I realize I’m holding my right side. Too late to claim anything but the truth. “They object to my existence.”
“I’ll take that as an improvement.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re still avoiding my question.”
“I answered it.”
“You absolutely didn’t.”
“I gave you the answer I was prepared to give.”
I stare at him for a long moment. He stares back with infuriating patience, as if the world has stopped turning, and I’m not at risk of premature gray hairs. This man could outlast erosion.
“Fine,” I huff. “Keep your secrets.”
“I intend to.”
“I’ll discover them eventually.”
“I’ve factored that into my risk assessment.”
“Good. Saves me the paperwork.”
A flicker of amusement passes over his face before he turns towards the bedroom door. My stomach chooses that moment to growl loud enough to echo around the room. He pauses.
“I’ll make breakfast,” I announce before my dignity has the opportunity to intervene.
He looks back over his shoulder. “You cook?”
The confidence drains out of me, and my cheeks flush. “I...” I clear my throat. “I know what breakfast consists of.” And it involves a distinct lack of cooking, and more like pouring cereal into a bowl and then choosing which milk to splash on.
“Stephanie.”
“It’s not rocket science. It’s breakfast.”
He folds his arms. “You’re avoiding answering the question.”
I grin. “I can’t imagine how frustrating that must be.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Stephanie.”
I want to make him say my name like that each and every day, like it’s a prayer and curse all wrapped into one.
I wrinkle my nose. “Hypothetically speaking, if the abductee had no idea how to cook, what would ‘kidnapped in a mountain lodge’ orientation day involve?”
His eyebrow lifts. “Kidnapped orientation day?”
“I assume there’s a schedule.”
“There isn’t. There wasn’t even a plan.”
“And yet here I am.”
“Here you are.”
“Bored kidnappees make problematic hostages. Idle hands and all that. Let me make some suggestions.”
“This isn’t camp.”
“For example.” I begin counting on my fingers. “Tour of the property. Emergency exits.”
“Already covered.”
“Health and safety briefing.”
“I’m listening.”
I grin as I pull him into my nonsense. “And perhaps a practical demonstration on how not to poison my captor while attempting scrambled eggs.”
He doesn’t even try to hide the smile. “I think,” he says, reaching for the bedroom door, “I’ll take breakfast duty this morning, and then we’ll start with the tour.”
James holds the bedroom door open, and I follow him into the hallway, taking my time because my ribs are still protesting every movement.
The lodge is even more impressive with the first golden rays of the morning.
White walls and exposed oak run the length of the open-plan space, the kitchen flowing into a dining area before giving way to the enormous sitting room.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame nothing but mountains and woodland.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmur as my eyes sweep across the tall trees.
“It serves a purpose.”
“You’re incapable of accepting compliments, aren’t you?”
“I wasn’t aware the lodge was me.”
“No, but someone chose it.”
No response, and that tells me everything I need to know.
The kitchen belongs in one of those magazines people leave on coffee tables to make visitors think they’re sophisticated. Dark cabinets, pale stone worktops, and enough gadgets to launch a small spacecraft. I stop beside an enormous coffee machine.
“I’ve found my favorite room.”
“You don’t drink coffee.”
“I love the smell, though.”
“You drink tea.”
“I admire coffee while drinking tea.”
He shakes his head as though I’ve become today’s first problem. Don’t worry. I intend to be your biggest problem.
“Such a smart mouth, sweetheart. Sit.”
His term of endearment makes my stomach flip. Does he call Daisy sweetheart? “I’m not a dog.”
His mouth threatens another smile.
I climb onto one of the stools lining the breakfast island, wincing as I lift myself onto it.
“I saw that.”
“I’ve decided ribs are overrated. I should have them removed. What are they for anyway?”
“They protect your organs.”
“Like my heart?”
He huffs a laugh as he crosses to a cupboard. Bread appears first. Butter follows. Jam. A kettle clicks on before he reaches into the fridge for orange juice.
I watch him work because there’s something strangely calming about someone moving around a kitchen they know so well. “You’ve done this before.”
“Eat? Yes, even kidnappers need sustenance.”
“No. Cook.”
“Occasionally.”
“I was expecting cereal.”
“I don’t own cereal.”
I gasp. “No Lucky Charms? Cinnamon Crunch?”
“No.”
“Not even emergency cereal?”
“I wasn’t aware cereal constituted an emergency.”
“It absolutely does. No respectable kidnapper should be without Froot Loops.”
He slides four slices of bread into the toaster. “I may have to educate you.”
I lean my chin on my fist and bat my lashes at him. “I’m trembling.”
He casts his gaze over my face and down my arm before ripping it away. “I can tell.”
The toast pops up a minute later. I debate whether I should tell him the weird way I enjoy my toast prepared, but decide not to push my luck. Not this hour, anyway. He snatches two pieces and arranges each slice to lean against the other to form a tent so the steam escapes.
I blink. He whistles as he prepares his coffee and my tea, but I can’t tear my eyes from the damn innocent toast tent.
He pushes a mug my way decorated with my favorite insect, the humble ladybug, then swipes a knife through the butter and snatches the first piece.
My breath catches. He’s waited for the perfect moment—not too soon, not too late, but that just-right degree where the butter softens into the toast instead of melting straight through it.
No one else does that, not that I’ve ever seen.
He butters each slice right to the edges before adding strawberry jam to two of them, leaving the other plain. He places the plate in front of me.
I stare.
“What?”
“The toast.”
He glances down. “What about it?”
“You let it cool.”
“Yes.”
“So it doesn’t go soggy.”
“Yes.”
“And you buttered it afterwards.”
He sighs. “Stephanie.”
“It’s just… it’s exactly how I like it.”
His hand stills on the handle of his mug. For one tiny moment, neither of us speaks. Then he shrugs. “It makes better toast.”
“No.” I look up at him. “You noticed.”
“I’m observant. Don’t get excited.” The words leave his mouth before he seems to realize he’s said them.
Silence settles over the kitchen. He looks away first, reaching for his coffee. I frown. “But you’ve never made me breakfast.”
“No.”
“You’ve never seen me make toast.”
“Correct again.”
“You’ve never...”
“I’ve watched you eat.” The admission hangs between us. Not creepy. Not embarrassing. Just... honest.
I think back over the times our paths have crossed, and my mind finally isolates the moment. Ten months ago, Christmas at my brother’s. Hunter made breakfast.
James not only watched, but he learned. Not because he was invested in toast, but because he was interested in me.
“You remember things,” I murmur.
“Important things.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks. I pick up a triangle of toast before I say something ridiculous.
It’s perfect. Crisp around the edges, soft in the middle, with just enough butter and exactly the right amount of strawberry jam.
I close my eyes. “You’ve just ruined every future breakfast another man might make me. ”
“How?”
I flick my eyes open to find him frowning. “Now I’ll compare all toast to yours.”
He exhales what might almost be a laugh. “I’ll try to live with the guilt.”
“I don’t think you appreciate the severity of the situation.”
“I’ll add cereal to the grocery list.”
I brighten because toast is dangerous in the hands of a man who knows what he’s doing. “Really?”
“If it stops you looking personally offended every time you open my cupboards.”
“It might.”
“I’ll take that risk.”
I take another bite, trying very hard not to wonder what else he’s noticed about me over the last ten months.