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“I normally just have green juice in the morning.”
“Omelets,” he says with a little more force.
“Egg whites?” I ask hopefully.
The look of disgust on his face makes me laugh.
Grabbing the carton of eggs, he holds them to his chest protectively and shakes his head at me playfully. “You’ll hurt their feelings, even eggs know that the yolk is the best bit,” he says in mock indignation.
A giggle bursts from my lips, and he smiles at me.
“My omelets are the best, prepare to be amazed,” he boasts, grabbing a huge pan and some other things before setting to work.
Unable to tear my eyes away, I watch as he moves happily around the kitchen, chopping and mixing, humming animatedly to the music he turned on after he grabbed all the ingredients.
All my life, my food has been prepared by a housekeeper or nanny. I don’t think I’ve set foot in the kitchen at home more than a handful of times, so I’ve never really watched someone cook before.
Hawthorn looks happy, like he’s really enjoying this menial task. It’s odd. We’re rich, and Mom always said rich people employ staff to do the menial tasks for them because they have more important things to do with their time.
“Voilà,” he says with a flourish, placing two plates on the breakfast bar with huge fluffy yellow omelets on them.
Scooping me off my stool, he spins me around, kisses me quickly, then places me back down with a playful laugh. Grabbing silverware and two glasses of orange juice, he takes the stool next to mine and smiles. “Cheese and bacon omelets,” he declares.
Dragging my plate toward him, he cuts off a slice and lifts the fork to my lips. “Eat,” he orders.
Parting my lips, I let him feed me, tasting the rich, tangy cheese the moment it hits my tongue. I chew tentatively at first, groaning when the salty bacon, fluffy eggs, and cheese all meld together in a delicious bite of wonderfulness.
“Good?” he asks.
“Really good,” I whisper.
“Told you, you’d be amazed,” he says, flashing me a smug smile as he cuts off a piece of his own food and eats it.
He pushes my plate and silverware toward me, and I stare at the omelet like it’s a snake ready to bite me. I know how ridiculous it is to be scared of a plate full of food, but I am. Even after one bite, I can already hear my mom’s taunting voice, telling me how fat I am and how, even with billions of dollars, no one would want to marry me when I’m so disgusting. Bile fills my mouth as the memory of my mom forcing her fingers into my throat and making me vomit again and again until my stomach was so empty that all I was expelling was blood and stomach acid fills my head.
Closing my eyes, I inhale slowly, trying to force the thoughts away, to block out the memory of the pills she made me take that made me so sick and weak I could barely stand. I would have gladly taken a beating over being so hungry that I thought I would die, all because I’d eaten desert. It didn’t take me long to learn that eating something my mom hadn’t approved came with pain and humiliation—a lesson that I’ll never forget.
“Princess.”
I can hear Hawthorn’s voice through the memory trap I’ve slipped into, but I can’t seem to resurface from my waking nightmare to respond to him. This never happened when I ate breakfast with him the first time I ever came here, nor when he cooked for me the other night, so why is it happening now?
“Penelope.”
This time his voice breaks through my meltdown, and I’m jolted back to reality, sucking in air as my eyes crash open.
“Hey,” he cries, cupping my cheeks as he stares at me with worry-filled eyes.
Blinking, I glance up at him, then immediately drop my chin, incapable of looking at him after knowing he just witnessed my meltdown.
“What the fuck just happened?” he demands, his grip on my face tightening in an unspoken order to look at him.
“Just a bad memory, that’s all. I’m fine now. I’m going to go take a shower,” I say, trying to pull away from his touch.
“No. Your ass is staying right where it is, Penelope. I’m fucking serious. What the hell just happened? You were fine, then you were just gone. I was calling your name, but it was like you couldn’t hear me.”
“I don’t know what it was, I think maybe I’m sick. I’m not used to all the cheese,” I say, forcing a smile onto my lips.
“You had a tiny forkful, barely a taste.”
