Page 24 of His Surrender

I can’t remember the last time I sat at my own kitchen island while someone cooked.

Or the last time I simply … existed in my own home.

“So,” Aubrey says, breaking the silence as she flips the eggs, “what was your breakfast before Liana?”

I smirk. “Coffee.”

“And?”

“More coffee.”

She points the spatula at me. “I knew it.”

“I fail to see the problem.”

“The problem,” she says with a grin, “is that your daughter deserves a dad who’s powered by more than caffeine.”

I glance down at Liana. She’s finished eating, and she’s staring up at me with those impossibly blue eyes.

Against my better judgment, I slide my untouched coffee mug a few inches farther away.

Aubrey catches the movement and smiles to herself before turning back to the stove.

She doesn’t say a word.

For some reason, that makes me smile too.

After I manage to get a couple of solid burps out of Liana, I settle her into the swing. She stares up at the hanging animals for a moment before one tiny yawn escapes her, her eyelids growing heavier with each gentle sway.

Satisfied she’s content for the moment, I make my way back to the kitchen island.

Aubrey has somehow transformed my kitchen into something that smells like an actual home. A massive plate—piled high with scrambled eggs, bacon, fresh fruit, and a stack of pancakes—waits in front of my seat.

I stop short. “Whoa.” I look from the plate to her. “That’s … a lot of food.”

“I’m trying to undo years of coffee counting as breakfast.”

Much to my surprise, she carries an equally loaded plate around the island and slides onto the stool beside me.

She grabs the bottle of syrup and generously pours it over her pancakes before setting it down with a satisfied nod. “If you aren’t getting enough sleep,” she says matter-of-factly, “then you have to get your energy from somewhere.”

She points her fork in my direction. “Now … eat.”

I can’t remember the last time someone ordered me to do something.

Oddly enough …

I don’t mind.

I pick up my fork and cut into the eggs. They’re light, fluffy, and somehow seasoned perfectly. The bacon has just enough crunch without being overdone.

I glance over at her. “Where’d you learn to cook?”

She shrugs like it’s no big deal.

“I don’t know. College, I guess.” She pops a strawberry into her mouth before continuing, “Living off ramen gets old pretty fast. I figured if I was going to be broke, I might as well learn how to cook.”

A laugh slips out before I can stop it. “Fair point.”