Page 22 of Things We Hide from the Light

“Splinter?” I scoffed.

“Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,” Nash said, that hint of a smile visible again.

“Splinter was a sewer rat.”

“A sewer rat with martial arts skills,” he pointed out.

“This young lady needs a debutante name,” I insisted. “Like Poppy or Jennifer.”

No reaction from the canine, but the man in the room worked his way up to a full smirk of amusement. “How about Buffy?”

I smiled into the dog’s fur. “The vampire slayer?”

He pointed the spatula at me. “That’s the one.”

“Ilike it, but she seems ambivalent to Buffy,” I observed.

I could have gone next door to change while Nash made breakfast, but I’d decided instead to pull on his sweatshirt againand hang out. He—unfortunately—had changed, putting on a clean shirt and jeans.

Now we were performing some sort of cozy, domestic scene in the kitchen. Coffee brewed, a gorgeous, barefoot man did breakfasty things at the stove, and the faithful dog danced at our feet.

Nash scooped a portion of the eggs onto one of the three paper plates he’d lined up and set it aside. The little dog sprang out of my lap to paw at Nash’s leg.

“Hold your horses. Let it cool off first,” he advised her. Her raspy yip said she wasn’t interested in holding anyone’s horses.

I got up and washed my hands. Nash tossed me the hand towel he wore over his shoulder, then started sprinkling cheese over the eggs. Feeling companionable, I found two dirty mugs on the counter and washed them.

The toaster spit out two pieces of nicely browned bread just as I poured the first cup of coffee.

“We found her in a pipe. So how about Piper?” Nash suggested suddenly.

The dog perked up, then sat, cocking her head.

“She likes that one,” I noted. “Don’t you, Piper?”

She wiggled her little hind end in acknowledgment.

“Think we’ve got ourselves a winner,” Nash agreed.

I poured the second mug, watching as he deposited the plate of eggs on the floor. “Come and get it, Piper.”

The dog pounced, both front paws landing on the plate as she scarfed up her breakfast.

“She’s going to need another bath,” I said with a laugh.

Nash dropped a piece of toast on each of the remaining plates, then awkwardly used his right hand to top them with the cheesy egg mixture.

“And more breakfast,” he observed, handing me a plate.

Nash Morgan was going to make some woman very lucky someday.

We ate standing in the kitchen, which felt safer and less domestic to me than clearing a spot at the table. Though I wouldn’t have minded another look at those files.

I was here to do a job, not complicate things by getting cozy with an unfairly hot neighbor.

Even if he did make really good cheesy eggs. And looked really good with his fresh shirt and soulfully wounded eyes. Every time our gazes connected, I felt…something. Like the space between us was charged with energy that kept intensifying.

“What makes you feel alive?” he asked abruptly.