“He is different,” I whispered to myself, ignoring my wide green eyes. “He’s everything.”
My heart skipped a beat, but I nodded and stepped back from the counter.
No more dithering. I was doing this.
“Eden?” Damon called, his voice slightly muffled. “Everything okay?”
Was it?
I glanced in the mirror, nodded once more, though more firmly this time.
Everything was going to be just fine.
I strode out of the bathroom, pushed through the open doorway, and spotted Damon at the end of the hall.
Not thinking. Not this time.
Not stopping. Not this time.
I ran toward him and launched myself into his arms. The containers in his hands hit the floor, food exploding everywhere, but I didn’t pay any more attention to that than I would have a gentle breeze. It was Damon I was focused on, Damon I needed more than anything, Damon—
Whose lips were soft, whose body was hard, who . . . kissed me like I was the most precious object in the universe before gently separating his mouth from mine.
“Eden, baby,” he said softly, his lips curved, chocolate eyes warm. “You’ve made a mess of breakfast again.”
Clink. A big piece of the armor I wore fell to the floor.
I was surprised the sound didn’t reverberate through the house, it felt so monumental inside my soul, but . . . Damon didn’t appear to notice. He just hefted me into his arms, stepped carefully over the mess I’d made by knocking the food from his hands, and carried me into the kitchen.
“What do you have against breakfast, baby?”
I laughed, nuzzled closer into his arms. “Apparently a lot.” I giggled. “And here I always thought I loved French toast.” He started to carry me to the table. “Hey, wait. Put me down. I should go clean up the mess and then cook you something.”
He kept walking. “I’ve got it.”
“Dam—”
“I’ve got it.” He set me down.
I started to stand, but he crouched down in front of me and rested his hands on my knees. “I’ve got it.”
My heart swelled. “Okay,” I whispered.
He nodded, stood, and crossed to the little closet where I kept my cleaning supplies. I waited as he gathered paper towels, a bottle of cleaner, and the trash can, but the moment he’d disappeared back into the hall, I pushed to my feet and began raiding the fridge. I might be tired and have just decided to take a terrifying step forward, but I could still make a mean batch of blueberry pancakes.
And bacon.
Mmm.
I reached for the package in the meat drawer. Yes, we definitely also needed bacon.
I brought it out, set it on the counter, and began measuring ingredients. Flour and baking soda, a dash of salt, milk, oil, eggs. I’d perfected this recipe over the years and so in just a matter of minutes, I had a bowl filled with batter and was setting a pan on the burner to preheat.
“Stubborn.”
Damon was behind me, leaning against the counter, cleaning supplies at his side, trash can by his crossed ankles.
I turned back to the stove. “I ruined breakfast, so the least of what I can do is make you some of my famous pancakes.”
“Famous how?”
I flashed him a grin over my shoulder. “Famous because they’re the one thing that I can cook.”
“What about your guacamole?” he said. “I can speak from experience that it’s delicious.”
“First, guacamole isn’t an acceptable breakfast food—”
“Says who?”
I snorted. “Second, chopping things up and throwing them into a bowl isn’t cooking.”
A beat then the packet of bacon was snatched from my hands.
“Hey!”
“If you can’t cook, then I’d better save this bacon from your hands.” He smirked. “Also, I think chopping things up and throwing them into a bowl is the definition of cooking.”
“I—” My words faltered when he came very close. “Okay, fine. That’s reasonable.”
He nodded.
Then we worked side-by-side in silence for a few minutes, him putting the slices of bacon onto the pan, me giving one more mix to the batter before ladling it onto the griddle.
“We going to talk about that kiss?” he murmured.
I bit my lip, sucked in a breath, then just let it rip.
“That kiss was hopefully the start of more—” He sucked in a breath, but I put my hand onto his arm. I glanced up, saw his face had gone hopeful, and I felt a blip of panic. Then I thought about that black and white picture, the sonogram of the baby I’d lost, and I knew that I had to keep moving forward. “But no, I don’t want to talk about it.” His expression sobered.
“Instead, I’m going to tell you about my ex-husband.”
Eleven
Damon
I nearly dropped the pack of bacon.
But I did manage to recover enough to set it on the counter, to turn off both burners, take Eden’s hand, and tug her away from the hot stove.
She appeared to be warring with herself, one minute her face was open, the next it was filled with worry.
“It’s okay,” I assured. “You don’t have to tell me—”
Green eyes glanced up to mine. “I realized something this morning . . .” A sigh, words trailing off.
I waited, giving her time to find her words, not wanting to rush her, even though she’d just dropped a pretty big bomb. Ex-husband? Eden had just turned twenty-eight, and I’d known her for six years now. She’d begun modeling a few years before I’d photographed her, so—
“I see you’re doing mental math.”
“I’m—”
A warm palm on my cheek. “It’s okay.” She smiled, but it didn’t hide the pain in her eyes. “I—” A shake of her head. “When I was a little girl, I dreamed about New York, about bright lights and being onstage. I dreamed about high heels clacking on sidewalks bustling with people. I dreamed that because it was as far away from my childhood as I could imagine.” Her voice dropped. “And I dreamed it because I’d seen the show Sex and the City once at a friend’s house who had cable. Because it seemed so bright
