Page 36 of Kingpin's Secret Baby

His back is to me, but I know he hears me coming when he calls over his shoulder, “Three strips of bacon, one egg scrambled until it’s dry, toast with cherry jam, and absolutely no black pudding. That still sound about right, love?”

I grip the hem of my sweatshirt and step inside, forcing my voice steady. “How do you know I haven’t changed my entire palate in the last year?”

Piers glances at me over his shoulder, a crooked smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’d put money on the fact that you’re still a picky little princess when it comes to breakfast.”

I scowl, folding my arms. “I am not picky.”

He turns fully toward me, spatula in hand, eyebrows lifting. “Your tea has to be exactly the right steep time. Your eggs have to be ruined beyond recognition. And God forbid there be syrup anywhere near your toast,” he lists on his fingers. “Sounds pretty specific to me.”

I roll my eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it. Instead, I glance at the plate of food he’s already prepared.

“Fine,” I mutter. “Maybe I haven’t changed that much.” I hesitate, then add, “but it’s not like I’ve had a proper breakfast in the last year anyway.”

Piers’s smirk falters for just a fraction of a second- so quick that if I didn’t know him, I might’ve missed it. But I do know him. And I know exactly what he’s thinking.

Before he can say anything, I aim for distraction. “Where’s Chef Marcel?”

Piers’s expression darkens slightly. He turns back to the stove. “Didn’t let him in.”

“Why not?”

He shrugs, but there’s tension in his shoulders. “Can’t let strangers come and go as they please. Not with the way things are.”

Right. Because I’m still a target. Because the outside world hasn’t disappeared just because we hid away in these mountains.

“He had the door cracked open when I got downstairs. I sent him on his way before he could step inside, but he muttered something about coming back tomorrow.”

“Maybe we can give him a pass. We didn’t even get to try his filet mignon.”

“If the man’s this determined to feed us, maybe he isn’t the threat I keep imagining... I’ll probably give in eventually. I can’t be on guard with the cook forever.”

The corner of my mouth twitches. I shouldn’t be amused, but I am. As I step closer, the basket on the island commands my attention, and my eyes widen at the tower of golden, flaky scones.

“Scones?” I murmur, reaching out and running my fingertip along the crisp edge of one. The heat still radiating off it sends a pleasant warmth through my skin.

Before Piers can react, I swipe one from the basket, tearing off a bite-sized piece and popping it into my mouth. The familiar, buttery crumble melts on my tongue, and I hum in appreciation.

“I always did like yours better than Rocco’s,” I say, licking a stray crumb from my thumb.

Piers glances at me. Then, with a shake of his head, he turns back to the stove. “Good to know I’m still better than a Michelin-starred chef.”

I watch him for a moment, the ease with which he moves in the kitchen, the natural way he makes himself at home even though we’ve been here for less than a day. Something about it unsettles me. Or maybe it’s the fact that he’s still effortlessly fitting himself into my life whether I like it or not.

Piers finishes plating our food and sets a dish in front of me before grabbing his own. “Come on,” he says, gesturing toward the patio door. “Let’s eat outside.”

I don’t argue. The last thing I want to do is give him a reason to pry more than he already does. I follow him onto the deck, the wood warm beneath my feet, the scent of pine thick in the air. The morning air is crisp and clean as we settle onto the wraparound porch, where a small iron table awaits. The mountain peaks are shrouded in early morning mist, and the expanse of the mountains stretches far and wide like we’re the only people left in the world. The view is breathtaking- and overwhelming in its vastness.

I’m halfway through my eggs when Piers leans back in his chair, watching me closely. “So,” he says, taking a sip of coffee. “What now?”

I pause mid-bite.

“What do you mean?” I ask, setting my fork down, though I already know what he’s asking.

“Your brother’s plan for you is in pieces. No one’s pulling your strings anymore.” He puts his coffee mug down and takes a bite of his toast. “You’re the master of your own destiny, Fantasia. What do you want?”

Piers waits, his body unnervingly still. His eyes lock onto mine, steady and unrelenting. He always had a way of getting under my skin, an ability to sift through my pride and my armor like none of it even mattered.

Because, to him, it never did.

---