Page 7 of Pity Play

Neither one of us says anything else while I prepare his coffee. When I put it in front of him, I watch while he sniffs it. His face contorts in such a way as to suggest he’s not impressed. Then he takes a tentative sip before nearly spitting the contents across the room. “Gah!”

“Too hot?” I ask nervously.

His face wrinkles into a righteous scowl. “Too bitter. When did you brew this?”

So much for making a good impression. “Three hours ago,” I tell him. “I made it extra strong so that I’d wake up faster.” I hurry back to the coffee pot to start a new batch. While refilling the pitcher I ask, “Would you like a Toaster Strudel, or do you prefer frozen waffles?”

He releases a sound like I just offered him a choice between worm stroganoff or battery acid soup. “Why don’t I make you breakfast while you go and get dressed?” he asks.

I should be grateful, but I’m not. Clearly, he thinks I’m asubpar hostess who can’t manage the smallest of tasks.What’s wrong with Toaster Strudel?“I guess you can, if you want.”

He stands up and shoos me out of the kitchen. “Come back in twenty minutes.”

Walking out of the room I start to question why I spent so much of my life swooning after Luke Phillips. The man is rude. He should have drunk his coffee and eaten his Toaster Strudel like a normal person. After all, everyone knows that Toaster Strudel is the caviar of prepackaged breakfast treats.

As I climb the stairs, I remind myself that despite his surliness, Lukeisthe best eye candy I’ve seen in ages. I’m not sure that’s enough to reinstate my childhood crush, but I suppose I’ll make an effort to fix myself up just in case.

CHAPTER FOUR

LUKE

I haven’t thought about Noah’s little sister at all in the past decade. After reacquainting myself with her, I can see why that’s the case. Not only is she quirky, but she’s not super attractive. When she opened the front door, she looked like my great aunt Helen after she’d been on a bender for a week.

My mom’s aunt has a penchant for making bathtub gin—and not to sell on the black market, either. She’s too cheap to buy her own hooch, so she dug out an old family recipe that’s been handed down since Prohibition. Being that she only has one bathroom, that means she only bathes after she’s drained the tub for her martinis.

After Lorelai goes upstairs, I open the refrigerator door to check out the contents. It’s full of takeout containers and little else. After some searching, I locate a stick of butter, four eggs that are stamped with an acceptable freshness date, and some cheddar cheese that looks like it’s in decent enough shape. In the pantry, I grab olive oil, an onion, and a shaker of Herbs de Provence.

There’s an empty skillet on the stove so I makequick work of heating up some oil and butter. I chop the onions and add them. As they crackle and pop, I crack the eggs into a bowl, and add a tablespoon of water, some salt, pepper, and the herbs. I whip everything into a froth before pouring the mixture over the onions. Then I finish making the fresh pot of coffee that Lorelai started.

Looking at the clock, I discover I’ll have plenty of time to eat before visiting hours start at the hospital. I told my mom I’d meet her there at ten, which is probably why Noah thought I was arriving in Elk Lake at that time.

After checking to make sure the eggs are nearly done, I sprinkle on some shredded cheese before turning off the burner and flipping the omelet over on itself to finish cooking. Then I walk out of the room to call for Lorelai. Turning the corner, I practically run into her. At least I think it’s her. She looks nothing like she did the last time I saw her.

“Lorelai?” Her hair is out of its confines and the auburn waves hang long and shiny down her back. She’s also changed out of her granny gown and put on some slim cut jeans with an oversized men’s flannel shirt. She looks adorable.

“Were you expecting someone else?” She’s clearly annoyed and I guess I can see why after how I behaved earlier.

“No, nope. No one else,” I say. “You just look very different than you did.”

She does not take this as a compliment. “Well, if you’d come at ten like you were supposed to, you would have never seen me like that.” Pushing past me, she walks into the kitchen and begrudgingly adds, “It smells great in here.”

“I made an omelet.”

Walking across the room, she pulls out a frozen pastry from the package she put on the counter earlier, and announces, “That should go nicely with my Toaster Strudel.” Ignoring my look of distaste, she adds, “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

“I guess I’ll just have to suffer,” I tell her. It will be a dark daywhen I put any preservative-laden, mass-produced baked good into my mouth.

I pull two plates down from the cabinet. After dishing up the omelets, I refill my mug with a fresh cup of coffee and offer to do the same for Lorelai. She shakes her head. “I’d better stop while I’m ahead. I’m already more caffeinated than I usually am.”

She sits down at the table on the chair across from mine. Her demeanor seems to thaw after I serve her breakfast. “Do you eat like this every day?”

I shrug my shoulders. “It’s just eggs.”

“It’s anomelet,” she says in awe. Then she picks up her fork and digs in. The groan of pleasure she releases feels like a punch to the gut. Noah’s little sister should not look like she does, and she certainly shouldn’t be making sounds like that. “So good …”

I suddenly have no appetite for my own food, so I sit and watch her enjoy hers. She’s finished in seconds. “Do you want some more?”

Her eyes light up. “Isthere more? I would love that!” I pick up her plate and slide mine in front of her. Realization hits, and she says, “I can’t eat your breakfast.”

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