Page 5 of The Last Key (Baker Girls #2)

CHAPTER THREE

KENNEDY

I wake up to the sound of typing and blink my eyes open.

Warmth fills my chest as I look around and realize where I am.

I hadn’t realized how much this house feels like home, but it does.

I’m not sure if it’s Devon or the memories here—probably a combination—but it’s cozy and comfortable.

For the first time in too long, I feel completely at ease.

Realizing I’m lying on a pillow half on Devon’s lap, I quickly sit up.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says with a laugh. He has a tray table pulled over the edge of the couch and is typing away on his laptop.

“Sorry. How long have I been asleep on you? You must be hungry or need to pee. What time is it?”

He laughs again. “It’s nine. You fell asleep about two hours ago. I’m assuming you didn’t sleep much on the flight. And have you forgotten what a heavy sleeper you are? I shifted you over, went to the bathroom, then came back and put you on the pillow about forty-five minutes ago.”

I rub my eyes and yawn. “Yeah, I’m not someone who sleeps well on planes. Or anywhere remotely public for that matter.”

“I know,” he says casually. Of course he knows. Most flights I’ve taken as an adult have been with him. Sometimes I wonder if he knows everything about me. Like he has some kind of direct line to my brain.

“Are you hungry?” I ask as my stomach growls. “Can I make you anything?”

He smiles sweetly at me. “There are bagels in the bread box and eggs and bacon in the fridge if you feel like making some breakfast sandwiches.”

“You’ve missed that, huh?” I ask, remembering how I’d make us breakfast sandwiches every Saturday morning when we lived in New York. He and Justin would come over early with lattes, and I’d make breakfast sandwiches for us, Hallie, and Frannie.

“Constantly. I’ve made them myself and bought them locally. Even the freshest ones at the farmers’ market never taste as good as yours. Must be the love you put in them.”

My throat constricts when he says the word love. It’s so innocent, and yet there was the slightest inflection to it.

Pushing past it, I say, “Well, as long as you keep things stocked, I’ll make them every day I’m here. As long as you make me lattes.”

He looks at his computer then back at me. “The best part of running your family business is being able to work from home. And the best part of working from home is taking breaks whenever you want.”

Pushing the tray table away, he rises from the couch and follows me to the kitchen.

It’s as homey as I remember. Deep maple cabinets and white granite counters with tan and bronze marbling.

It’s not massive, but its U-shape makes it plenty big enough for us both to move around.

The sink sits on one side of the island.

The other side is raised for stools to fit underneath.

The counter space is plentiful, and as I pull eggs, bacon, and butter from the fridge, Devon turns on the Bluetooth speaker.

I smile at him as I set everything down.

“Music is a must.” In college, whenever we’d cook in the tiny kitchenette in the apartment he shared with Justin, we’d always dance around to music.

“Definitely.” Then I look around. “Pans?”

He nods, then opens the cabinet by my feet and pulls out a cast iron pan—the best pan for cooking anyone could own.

That, a ceramic-coated Dutch oven, a saucepan, and a small pot are all you really need.

And when it comes to cooking a breakfast sandwich, there’s nothing better than a cast iron pan. Except maybe a full griddle.

“How many slices of bacon do you want?”

“Two’s good,” he says as Dandelions by Ruth B. flows from the speaker.

I open the package and put four pieces of bacon in the pan, then turn it on medium-low. He has a nice gas cooktop which is my favorite for cooking.

“I also have one of these,” he says, grabbing a splatter screen from under the cabinet and handing it to me.

“Oh. Nice. Bougie.” I pop it on top, then grab the bagels, slice them, and stick them in the toaster oven while he makes our lattes. “You want scrambled eggs or fried?”

“Definitely fried.”

With the bacon cooking and the milk frothing, we dance around the kitchen to the song—one of my favorites. Have I mentioned that to him? I know I haven’t told him why it’s one of my favorites. Because it makes me think of him.

I close my eyes for a minute, moving to the rhythm of the music when Devon wraps his hand around my waist and pulls me closer.

My eyes fly open. And damn it all, my core clenches.

Usually I’m past any physical reaction to him.

But he’s being more physical with me than normal.

I’m not complaining, but it’s making it harder for me to leave my fantasy world and revert to best friend mode. I don’t want to.

Especially as he inches closer, his body still moving to the music.

Dance.

I let myself go, having fun. My eyes slip closed again as our bodies move together. Without thinking, I slide my hands under the back of his shirt, running them over his lower back.

His sharp inhale pulls me back to reality, and I rip my hands off his back as my eyes open. I’m expecting to see a freaked-out expression on his face, but instead, he’s grinning.

What the hell?

Was he enjoying me dancing so close, rubbing my hands over his skin? My body flushes at the thought, and I turn my attention back to the stove, carefully lifting the splatter screen and using tongs to flip the bacon slices.

“What flavor latte do you want? I have toffee, vanilla, salted caramel, and,” he laughs, “chocolate chip cookie dough. I was thinking of you when I bought that one.”

I can’t bring myself to look at him, but the chocolate chip cookie dough sounds delicious.

“Definitely the cookie dough,” I tell him, eyes still on the bacon, as if me staring at it will alleviate the heat coursing through my body or make the bacon cook faster.

He slides the mug over to me, then stands behind me, head dropping down so it’s nearly resting on my shoulder.

Oh my god. What’s happening?

“Almost done? Should I start the toaster oven?”

Breathe, Kennedy.

One breath in. One breath out.

“Yeah, that would be a good idea.”

The bacon is almost done, but really, I need him a step away from me or I might spontaneously burst into flames.

When the bacon is done, I flick off the heat, transfer the strips to a paper towel-lined plate, then turn the heat back on and add the eggs.

“Cheese?” Devon asks.

“American, if you have some.”

“Got it.”

He puts cheese then bacon on the top halves of our bagels, then butters the bottom halves. When the eggs are done, I put them on the bottoms of the bagels. Then Devon quickly closes the sandwiches and takes our plates to the kitchen counter.

I’m feeling a bit cooler as I sit down next to him, but I’m hoping he keeps his hands to himself.

Not because I don’t want him to touch me, but because I don’t know what him touching me means.

I was certain that Devon would never have feelings for me—even if he did, they’d be fleeting. Today, though, I’m not so sure.

“I thought we’d head to the inn after this,” he says between bites. “Gladys can’t wait to see you.”

“I can’t wait to see her, either. But what about your parents? Can we stop and see them on the way?”

Sadness flits through his eyes for a moment, but he nods. “Yeah. We can. But… Kend, they aren’t going to be how you remember them.”

“How bad has it gotten?” I ask. His mom is active on social media and we talk a lot, but she always makes things sound great.

Devon hasn’t talked much about their health, and since I talk to his mom often, I haven’t asked him.

It didn’t occur to me that she’d be lying about it. But of course she would.

He sighs and spins on his stool so he’s facing me.

“Dad has to use crutches to get around most days. On good ones, he can use a cane. He had a pretty steep decline last summer, but he’s evened out since then.

Mom has good days and bad ones, but the ache and weakness in her hips and knees make it hard for her to get out of a chair some days.

After having to drop everything several times to go help her get up, because Dad couldn’t support her, I finally got them the recliners that can lift you up to standing.

I also have aides that check in and help make meals for them.

They let me oversee their financials when they sold me the house.

I put the money I paid them into an account that I use solely to pay for aides, so I can make sure if they need help, they have it.

Luckily, the building has a concierge service if there’s an emergency, too. ”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He looks at me for a second, then stands up and paces back and forth next to the island.

“Because it kills me. My mom was the one who ran a daycare out of the inn and kept up with every kid. She brought baked goods to every school sporting event I had. She and my dad were involved with everything at the inn. Dad refused to hire a groundskeeper for years because he loved mowing the lawn and taking care of the gardens there. They were active and full of life. I hate seeing what they’ve been reduced to.

When we have kids, they won’t be able to play with them. It sucks.”

Blowing past the fact that he said “when we have kids” because now is not the time to harp on that, I hop off my stool and step in front of him, pulling him into my arms.

“I’m so sorry, Dev.”

He melts into my arms, resting his head against mine as he holds me close.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“It’s okay. But I want to support you. I should’ve come back here sooner.”

“No. You were working hard building your career.”

“A lot of good that did me,” I say with a laugh. He laughs lightly too as we step apart. “I’m here now. And I want to help out. You. Your parents. The inn. Whatever. I’m here for you.”

“I know you are.” His voice is soft and reverent and his eyes are tender as he looks at me. Again, my body warms and my breath sticks in my throat.

For the briefest of moments, his gaze drops to my lips.

My lips?

No. I’m imagining it, right ?

“So,” I say, breaking the tension, “let’s finish our breakfasts, then we’ll go.”

“Sounds good,” he agrees, sitting back on the stool.

I wait a beat, taking a deep breath and trying to calm my pounding heart and raging hormones because it seems like Devon might want me. And I’m not sure what to do with that.

“Hey, where’d you put my stuff?” I call, standing outside the spare room. Maybe he stuck it in the closet in there? All I know is I need to freshen up before we leave the house. Wash my face and put on some clean clothes. Nothing like riding on a plane for six hours to make you feel gross.

Devon steps out of the master, smiling. Or maybe smirking. Or dare I say smoldering?

“I put it in here.” He nods toward the master.

Be cool, Kennedy.

“Why?”

“Well, you know Justin is coming.”

“Yes.” Though he’s not a Brighton High alum, he’s a close friend to both of us, and since Devon and I are in the same place, he’s coming into town for a few days to see us both.

“Rather than have him sleep on that crappy futon, I figured I’d put him in the spare, and you can room with me. You like snuggling at night, anyway.” The grin on his face grows, and he gestures for me to follow him into the room.

Taking tiny penguin steps, I follow him, stopping just inside the doorway.

“This dresser,” he says, gesturing to one by the window on the far side of the room, “is empty except for the top drawer, so it’s all yours. I put your hanging bag in the closet, and if you have any toiletries, you can put them in this bathroom or the hall one, whichever you’d rather use.”

“Okay,” I choke out. What is happening? Devon and I have never even lived together. Not in college or after in New York. Now we’re sharing a room? A bed? I’m going to share a freaking bed with my best friend who I have feelings for while trying to pretend everything is normal?

He tilts his head to the side. “Unless, of course, you have a problem sharing a room. Or a bed.” Why did that word sound seductive?

Oh my god.

Is he flirting with me?

That grin. Sharing a room. Dancing in the kitchen. He is. He’s flirting. Does he want this? Me?

I don’t know. And I’m not ready to show my hand until I have a better idea of what he wants. But two can play at this game.

Smiling—maybe a little mischievously—I say, “No. No problem. That sounds great.” My eyes lock on his and we stare at each other for a moment, heat seeping into the room as we do.

“Perfect,” he says. Then he inhales deeply and steps back. “I’ll let you get ready.”

“Thanks.”

He walks out of the room and closes the door behind him.

Holy shit, that was intense.

I have no idea what’s going on, but I like it, and I’m going to have some fun with it.

Let’s play.