Page 65 of Nothing to Fear

“Food is ready.” She carried two plates up the steps past him to the L-shaped dining unit.

He killed the engine and joined her.

They each took a side of the L-shaped settee. He dug into the scrambled eggs. Perfectly cooked, light and creamy. The bacon was crisp with a hint of chewy texture, the way he preferred. She’d even made a fruit salad and toast smeared with smashed avocado and a sprinkle of salt.

“This is a kick-ass breakfast.”

She nibbled a piece of bacon and bit into the toast. “Breakfast is my specialty. Before my mom died, we would cook breakfast together from scratch. Waffles, pancakes, frittatas, buttermilk biscuits with gravy. And I make a mean hollandaise sauce.”

The mouthwatering rundown had him anxious to have her whip up more food, pronto.

“Those scones you made were amazing.” He wiped crumbs from the corner of her mouth with his thumb, thinking about her dad’s reaction to her frozen meals. “You never helped your mother with dinner?”

“My dad always made dinner.” Her gaze drifted, a shadow of sadness falling over her. “He said cooking alone, listening to music, relaxed him. He’d play Frank Sinatra or Coltrane.”

When she didn’t go back to eating, he took her hand in his.

“His Hodgkin’s got bad three years ago. The fatigue and pain have been hard on him, and my cooking hasn’t helped.” She gave a woeful look. “He always wants me to make breakfast for dinner—waffles, home fries with sausage and eggs—but the doctor said to watch his diet. Low cholesterol. Low sodium. Low fat. I’ve tried seasoning things with broth and herbs, but he’s not happy.”

The closeness and bond of affection she shared with her father was beautiful. Special. They were lucky to have that.

“What happened to your mom?”

“Breast cancer. She died when I was eleven.” Her voice was solemn, like someone reading an obituary out loud.

To lose her mother at that age must’ve been tough. He wanted to scoot closer and comfort her in his arms, but asking these types of personal questions already erased and redrew the professional chalk line closer to the point of no return.

“Did your sisters take over around the house?”

She tucked hair behind her ears. “Laurel is ten years older than me, and Ivy’s eight. When my mom passed, they were at college, busy in their own lives. Ivy checked on me, took me shopping, got me fitted for my first bra.” She shrugged. “That sort of thing. Until she moved to Paris.”

As an only child, Gideon was used to fending for himself. After his dad left, it was like his mother had resented being a parent. It used to eat away at him. He’d been desperate for her to want him, to have the normalcy other kids took for granted.

Then someone had come along who reformed how he saw the world, changing him forever.

“I hope my dad is going to be okay.” She stroked her bare throat. No pearls.

Before he could stop himself, he took her hand from her neck into his. “I’m sure the doctors are going to do everything they can to help him.”

The Gray Box would know about her dad by now. Hopefully, they’d connected the dots and assigned a protective detail to watch over him. Whoever hurt her father to bait Willow to come out of hiding would want to tie up any loose ends eventually.

“Try to focus on something else. Any distraction is good.”

She nodded with a brave smile, and he let her hand go.

While they ate, she told him stories about her childhood. Little things she missed about her mom, embarrassing slipups with boys, how hard it had been to make friends in school. She was like a spout turned on, pouring herself out to him. No filters. No shyness.

He took it in, not stopping her. It wasn’t as though they could spend two days together in confined quarters and not speak at all. Idle chatter usually grated on him, but her openness was surprisingly relaxing.

She picked up their empty plates when they were done and went to the galley.

In the kitchen, she turned on the radio. An upbeat pop song filled the cabin. Finishing his black coffee, he strode to the helm. She washed dishes, bobbing her head at first and slowly working up to shimmying her hips to the beat of the music, drawing a smile to his face.

Talking must’ve helped her. He admired how free and open she could be in some circumstances. The vulnerability to put yourself out there the way she did took great courage and strength. She was far braver and stronger than him in that regard.

She wiped her hands on a dish towel and sauntered closer, hips swaying to the beat of the music, a slight jiggle to her breasts. Her lightness was infectious. He was almost weightless, like he’d swallowed a balloon, but he couldn’t let his common sense drift away as well.

She was on the run and under immense pressure to clear her name. He couldn’t take advantage of her. They had to talk about boundaries, for both their sakes.