Page 6 of Kings of Sherwood

All so good. All so...normal.

Almost.

Tuck laughs. “You look like you’re trying to defuse a bomb.”

“It’s a lot of pressure,” I explain, defending myself.

Tuck pulls me in, gentle, but unmistakably tighter, and I take in the warm smell of him, cinnamon and musk. “Don’t you fix people’s brake cables and stuff? I’d think that’s a lot higher pressure as far as technical execution goes. More life and death.”

“Really?” I tip my face up to his. “These are the last of the eggs. You want to explain to the other guys why their breakfast is on the floor?”

Tuck winces, but smiles, and nods. “Good point.” Even though we’ve been back for a few days, everyone’s still recovering from our, let’s say, rustic accommodations out in the woods, and I am expecting raging appetites when the others get up.

Not just for food, either. At least not to judge by what I felt from Will in his bed just now.

My cheeks get hot.All in good time,I tell myself. All of us have needed a little time to...recalibrate. Catch up on sleep. Process...everything.

There’s a smallpopon the stovetop, and Tuck’s hand firms over mine.

“Here.” He smiles. “Ready?”

“No.”

Gently, he glides the pan back and forth, one, two, three, times, and—

“Boom.” The omelette, with no thanks to me, lands in the pan, beautifully flipped and golden. Tuck beams. “See? You’re a natural.”

I scoff as he lets me go, pressing a kiss to my temple as he grabs some herbs and tosses them on a cutting board.

“It’s just a little browned,” he says, deftly flicking a knife blade over the bundled herbs, his hands sure and steady and his eyes intent on his work. “But for a more rustic omelette, that’sfine. If we were doing a strictly haute cuisine kind of thing, we’d want it uniformly yellow, with smaller curds—”

To be honest, I’m only half listening. I don’t really care about learning how to make an omelette—rustic or otherwise—but I do love hearing Tuck go on and on about whatever thing he’s working on, love watching the quick, skilled, instinctive movements of a man who’s good at what he does.

I love Tuck. Truly and fully.

He stops suddenly, looking at me with a puzzled expression. “What?”

His confusion startles me out of my daydream. I clutch my coffee and shake my head. “Nothing.”

“Okay. Phew.” Tuck relaxes. “Iknowit’s controversial to adulterate the traditional French omelette, but I just think the creme fraiche adds a—”

“Does it feel weird to be back?” I ask. “To you, I mean.” I drum my fingernails on the side of my mug. “It...I think it does for me.”

Tuck pauses, the chopped herbs scooped into his hand. He looks around the kitchen, frowning, as if the hanging pots and pans or cabinet doors have the answer he’s after.

Then he shakes his head.

“I don’t know,” he says. With another flick of the pan handle, the omelette scoots onto a waiting plate and gets a shower of green bits from his other hand. It smells fucking amazing. “Here.” Tuck hands it to me. “Eat.” I open my mouth to protest, but he waves me off. “It’s no good cold. I’ll figure something out for the others.” He points at one of the counter seats, and I’m too hungry to argue further, so I scamper into place.

As I fork up a bite, Tuck snaps off the burner and leans against the counter, arms folded and face contemplative. “It’s notnotweird,” he agrees. “I mean, on the one hand, this place ishome, right? More than anywhere else I’ve ever lived, really, so. But on the other...”

“...we kind of just broke back in here after murdering someone?” I don’t mean to be so blunt about it, but the words just tumble out of my mouth. Tuck flinches just a tiny bit.

“I’d argue it was self-defense,” he says, his voice a little darker than before. “But...yeah, I guess.” He chews his lip, casts a glance around the room. “I guess it’s just a matter of time before they come looking for us.”

I hack off another piece of omelette with the side of my fork. “Is it? I mean, who even istheyat this point?” I’m not an idiot—I know it’s not realistic to just live happily ever after holed up in a hidden forest mansion that’s armed to the teeth, but I also...kinda wish it were.

I’m not a quitter. But deep down, I’m tired of running. Tired of fighting.

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