Page 27
The familiarity of it catches me harder than I expect. He waits, then takes a cautious sip.
His eyes widen. The fine weave around his mouth tightens.
Betrayal.
I can’t help but laugh.
“Bad.”
“You don’t have to drink it.” He peers into the mug as if the problem may have become visible.
“Coffee bad.”
“Sounds like you don’t like coffee.”
He tries it again, committed to confirming the diagnosis. The second sip changes nothing.
“Why?”
I laugh harder. “I can’t answer that.”
He sets the mug down with great finality and takes a sip of water. I don’t make any for myself. I’m still running on the strange energy of waking up to a man in my kitchen and discovering that he’s already developed strong opinions about strawberry jam and coffee.
My phone buzzes on the counter. Before going to bed last night, I’d texted the whole group and requested an emergency morning confab. Shannon had volunteered Tom’s closet, Janet had promised to bring “a few things,” and Rachel had said she’d be there. Blair hadn’t answered yet, which probably meant she was asleep.
The new message is from Shannon: Leaving now. Tom donated clothes.
Janet says she has supplies, which is alarming. Janet rarely arrives with only the thing she was asked to bring.
Another message appears before I can put my phone down.
Blair: On my way.
I type back: Coffee is on. Bring courage.
When I look up, Kell has opened the fridge again. This time he’s turning the butter package slowly in his hands, tracing a fingertip over the printed label.
“Words?” I ask.
He nods and points to the large print. “Butter.”
“That’s right.”
He gives the package another look before handing it to me. I put it back on the shelf and close the fridge.
“Things go back where they came from when we’re done with them,” I tell him.
Kell looks toward the cabinets he opened earlier. “Always?”
“That’s generally the goal.”
The doorbell rings before the kitchen discussion can go any further. Kell turns toward the sound immediately, the humor giving way to alert interest rather than fear.
“Friends,” I tell him. “The women I told you about.”
“Rachel.”
“Yes.”
