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“You’re an angel,” Ophelia told him, a look of adoration on her face.
And she’ll look at me like that, too.
Not even trying to move off my lap, she scooted closer to the table and dug in.
“You made me toast,” I pointed out the unfairness, tapping my plate that had one piece left on it.
Swedes shrugged. “Scythe said she knocked ‘em back like she had a hollow leg. That calls for grease.”
“Doing the Lord’s work,” she said between bites of bacon.
If there was one way to get on Swedish’s good side, it was enjoying his food. He’d worked in some of the best kitchens in the city before retiring early. He still cooked, but only for friends and family who appreciated food for being food, not fancy statement pieces of deconstructed bullshit.
Food was his gift, and someone eating it without restraint, showing how much they enjoyed it, was the ultimate thanks in his book.
He grinned at her.
“Toast,” I repeated.
“You know where the kitchen is,” he shot back. “I’m taking off. Let me know what needs to be added to the list.”
“Got it.”
“Thanks for the breakfast,” Ophelia said, blocking her mouth with her hand so we couldn’t see what was in it.
Which, based on the crust in her other hand, was my toast.
After Swedes had left, Ophelia’s plate had been cleaned, and she’d finished off her coffee and mine, I asked, “Feeling human again?”
“Mostly.”
“Good. Then we gotta talk.”
She tried to look unfazed, but her poker face was as shit as her shit-talk. “Nothing good comes after that.”
“You ever been to Tennessee?”
Her brows lowered as she drawled, “No… why?”
“We’re going Sunday.”
“As in, two days from now?”
“Yeah.”
“To Tennessee?
“Yeah,” I repeated.
“You know, when people runaway on impromptu trips, it’s to, like, Vegas. Or the Bahamas.”
“Name the place and time, and I’ll take you wherever you wanna go. But this is a work thing.”
“The big weekend thing you’ve all been talking about,” she muttered. “How long will you be away?”
“We’ll be gone six days. Maybe seven.”
“I can’t go out of town.”
