Page 82 of Shadow

She pulled eggs from the fridge. Bacon from the meat drawer. Bread for toast. Started the coffee maker, the gurgling sound and rich smell filling the kitchen. Cracked eggs into a bowl. Added milk. Whisked them together, the tines scraping against ceramic.

Footsteps on the stairs. She knew those footsteps now.

He appeared in the doorway.

He was too hot for his own good. Dark morning stubble because he hadn’t shaved yet, those gray-green eyes, right now more green in the morning sunlight. Small scar through his left eyebrow. His jeans hung low on his hips, his gray T-shirt clung to his shoulders and chest. Dark hair, still damp, curled around his ears and at the nape of his neck.

Barefoot. (He even had hot feet.)

And that smile. That morning smile.

“Morning.”

“Morning. Coffee’s almost ready.”

“You’re a saint.”

“Self-protection. You get a little crabby without coffee.”

“Fair.”

Daphne watched the way his hands moved. Capable hands. Scarred knuckles. Long fingers. Hands that had pulled Mark Sullivan from a burning car.

Hands that had killed a man.

“I still don’t understand how you can drink that.”

He took a sip. Made that satisfied sound. “And yet you make it for me every morning.”

Aw, shoot, she did. She turned back to the stove before she started purring.

He moved beside her. Close enough she could smell soap and shampoo—something clean and masculine. Close enough she could feel warmth radiating from his body. Close enough their arms almost touched when he reached for the spatula. “Need help?”

“I’ve got it.”

But he stayed there anyway.

She scrambled eggs. He buttered toast. She plated bacon. He poured juice. Moving around each other in the small kitchen without collision. Without words.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Destiny emerged wearing black yoga pants and a fitted purple top. Hair pulled back in a perfect ponytail. Makeup flawless.

“Good morning.” She poured herself a cup of coffee.

“Morning.” Daphne plated eggs. Steam rose with the smell of butter and bacon.

Roger appeared. Rumpled. Hair sticking up. Still in pajama pants—blue plaid flannel—and an old Denver Broncos T-shirt with a hole near the hem. He grabbed the orange juice jug. Lifted it as if to drink straight from it.

“Roger.” Destiny’s voice, sharp.

He sighed. Grabbed a glass. Poured juice with a grumble.

Then he came to the table and sat down with another sigh.

Talk about crabby.

They ate in relative silence. Three weeks had established a morning routine. Breakfast at seven-thirty. Coffee. Destiny would turn on the news. Then Asher and Daphne would plan the day while Roger and Destiny retreated.

But today, Destiny didn’t retreat.