Walk Through Fire (Page 69)

And he’d made the perfect winter fashion selection, even if it was singular with the only variety being color and the nuance of fade to his jeans. Snug-fitting thermal Henleys were perfect on him. Including the wine-colored one he was currently wearing.

“Never brought breakfast to anyone in bed, didn’t know the protocol,” he muttered.

My eyes went from his thermal at his chest to his face to see his lips curved up.

That was perfect too.

“I could get bacon grease on my sheets,” I informed him haughtily.

“They’ll wash,” he returned, bending to put my coffee cup on my nightstand (without a coaster!) at the same time offering me a plate that had four slices of bacon, a huge pile of fluffy eggs, and two slices of bread liberally slathered with butter and grape jelly.

More disasters waiting to happen to my sheets.

I took it from him automatically, telling him, “Bacon grease isn’t easy to get out. And what if it gets on the duvet cover? That could be cataclysmic.”

He raised his brows.

Also perfect.

Why oh why when it felt like I was fading away I… just… didn’t?

“Grease on your sheets is cataclysmic?” he asked.

“Have you ever tried to get grease out of anything?” I asked back.

His lips curved up again on his, “No.”

“Then you don’t understand. Further, this bed set is seasons old. And it’s perfect. If something happened, I’d never be able to replace it.”

“Fuck, you’re right,” he stated. “That is cataclysmic.”

I felt my chest depress.

He was being sweet, gentle, thoughtful, and teasing.

In other words, speaking to him was totally fucking with my strategy of eating then fake-passing out and coming up with a new strategy to get him gone.

So I had to stop speaking to him.

I moved and set my plate on the nightstand so I could get out of the bed and I did it mumbling, “I’ll eat in the kitchen.”

A hand landed firm on my shoulder, pressing in, and I tipped my head back.

When I caught his eyes, he said, “I’ll get the fuckin’ tray. Where is it?”

Logan was going to get me a tray.

I stared up at him.

Apparently I did this too long because he straightened and turned, saying, “Whatever. I’ll find it.”

Then he walked out of my room.

Something came to me the instant he disappeared and I yelled, “Bring a coaster! They’re in the drawers of the coffee table in the living room!”

I heard a faraway, “Jesus,” then nothing.

It was then I had thoughts of climbing out the window.

I was in jammies, had wet hair, and my mind wasn’t all there, likely for more reasons than just that I was jet-lagged, so I didn’t think being in my jammies with wet hair on the run in the cold would be a good idea.

So instead, I reached for my coffee and sipped it.

After that, I stared at the breakfast and hoped he didn’t dawdle. It looked delicious and food like that was a lot more delicious when it was warm.

I didn’t think about the fact that he cooked it.

When we were together, Logan cooked, but not much. This was because I loved cooking and he loved letting me do what I loved. But part of loving it was doing something for my man, doing my bit to take care of him.

When he cooked, it wasn’t bad, it wasn’t great, though by the end he was really getting good at the grill and he could make any kind of potato fabulous.

He’d obviously gotten better, at least at eggs.

He came back with a tray that I’d bought with the idea of putting out hors d’oeuvres and serving fabulous cocktails on it during the parties that I eventually never gave.

It appeared there was more food on it, definitely another mug of coffee.

He came right to me, plopped the tray on my lap, took a coaster from it, and tossed it on my nightstand, then grabbed the plate of food and mug of coffee off it and moved away.

I watched apprehensively as he rounded the bed and put his coffee mug (not on a coaster) on my other nightstand. Then he climbed in bed with me, settled back to the headboard, legs stretched out, stocking feet crossed at the ankles, and he forked up some eggs.

I sat motionless, staring at him eating in my bed.

With me.

What was going on?

With mouth still full, he turned to me and asked, “Hand me the other coaster, would you, babe?”

My brain having stopped functioning altogether, I looked down at the tray, saw another coaster there, mutely picked it up, and handed it to him.

He took it, twisted, I was treated to his thermal stretching across his ribs and lateral muscles and doing this tight as he put his mug on the coaster. Then he sat back, his eyes sliding to me.

“Eat,” he ordered low.

“What’s happening?” I asked.

“Eat,” he repeated.

I turned more fully to him. “What’s happening, High? Why are you here? Why are you making bacon? Why are you eating my food?”

“Dot stocked you up but she didn’t buy eggs and bacon, Millie. That’s from Chaos,” he told me. “Now this shit is fuckin’ good, so grab it before it gets cold and eat.”

It was from Chaos.

I turned and looked at my food like a woman who’d just been informed her meal was laced with arsenic.

From beside me came a warning, “Eat or I feed you, Millie.”

I wasn’t in the mood to test that.

Hell, I’d probably never be in the mood to test that.

So I didn’t test it.

I grabbed the plate, put it on my tray, slid the fork out from under the food, and stabbed at the eggs.