Page 24 of Defending You

She buttered toast, assembled egg sandwiches, and slid them onto plates, which she set on the small table by the window. “It’s just grilled egg and cheese. Nothing fancy, but it’s better than Cheetos.” She grabbed the second coffee mug from the Keurig and placed it beside his plate. “Black?”

“No cream, I guess. Sugar?”

She plopped the bowl of creamers and the sugar dish on the table with a spoon.

He dumped three spoonsful of sugar into the hot brew, then stirred in a couple of single-serving creamers.

“That gonna be enough?”

“I don’t drink it for the taste.” He sipped, making a face. “Nobody drinks it for the taste.”

She tasted her own. It wasn’t the freshly ground beans she had at home, but it was still good. “Why drink it if you don’t like it?”

He shrugged. “It’s always available. Days like today, I need the caffeine.”

“My sister Brooklynn doesn’t care for coffee, but she loves tea. You should try that.”

He made a noncommittal sound and bit into his breakfast, seemed to test the flavor, then set the sandwich down. “That’s really good.”

“Why do you sound surprised?”

“Just didn’t peg you for a cook.”

“I have to eat. What, did you think I have a chef on staff?”

He shrugged, biting into his sandwich, his expression neutral but his silence telling. Studying him, she didn’t miss the slight flush creeping up his neck.

“Wait,” she said. “You did, didn’t you?”

“No, not…you.”

“My family, then. You thought we had, what? Household staff?”

“Didn’t say that,” he mumbled around a bite, not meeting her eyes.

She leaned back, half-amused, half-exasperated. “We had money, sure, after Dad started his business. But we didn’t live in a mansion with butlers and maids.” Mom had employed—still employed, actually—a housekeeper who came once a week, but Cici decided not to mention her. “I learned to cook from my mother.”

He swallowed, finally looking up, a flicker of embarrassment in those blue eyes. “Guess I figured wrong.”

“Guess you did.” She ate a bite of her sandwich. It would be better on an English muffin with a slice of ham, but it was okay. “My parents aren’t butler-and-caviar rich.”

At least she’d never seen them that way. Dad had amassed a fortune since he’d founded his defense contracting company. And Cici supposed, compared to…well, most everybody, they would be considered rich. But she and her sisters hadn’t been spoiled or pampered.

The quiet settled between her and Asher, not tense like the night before but more comfortable, easier. She watched him, this man who’d morphed from the geeky kid she’d barely known into someone who could hot-wire a car and shoot out tires without blinking. He’d surprised her, and she wondered ifshe’d surprised him too. Probably only in the vastness of her ineptitude.

He polished off his sandwich, and she rose and grabbed him another one—she’d assumed he’d want a second—and slid it onto his plate.

“Thanks.” He dove into it, then sat back and sipped his coffee. “For a while, my mom worked at that souvenir shop in town—the one owned by Elvis…whatever her name is. You know her?”

“Elvis Harper.”

“Right. My brother and I used to go with Mom on Saturdays because Dad was working and she didn’t want to leave us home alone all day.”

Cici wasn’t sure where this story was going. “Fun place for kids.”

“Got boring after a few hours, though. She’d let us walk around town. We were probably…ten and eight? Something like that.”

“I bet you were a protective older brother.”