Page 78 of Filthy Player

“Feeling better?” Beaux asked, pushing back from his chair.

I stopped him with a hand. “Yeah. Need coffee though. You stay, I can get it.”

He watched my every movement as I poured a cup of coffee, filled a plate with biscuits and gravy and halfway to the table, he reached out and took the plate from me.

“You’re still tremoring,” he said, grinning at me. “Let’s not have this gravy all over your floor.”

Not a bad idea. I took the seat next to him and dug into my breakfast fully aware everyone’s eyes were on me. Well, except for maybe Melanie. But the way she was eating with her head propped up on one hand I figured she was just trying to stay awake.

“God, this sucks.” She groaned and pushed away her food. “I’m so sick to my stomach, I can’t even finish this. Now I’ll never get to say I had Beaux Hale cook me breakfast.”

“I cooked it for Paige and Sam, not you.”

“Yeah, but I’m like family now, so I’m included.”

“No.” He grinned. “You’re not.”

“Says you,” she grumbled playfully and stuck out her tongue.

Melanie moved from the table and refilled her coffee mug before re-joining us.

As she returned, I wiped my mouth with a napkin. “You made this?” I asked Beaux. “It’s really good.”

He pointed at my dad. “I had a good instructor.”

“That Yankee wouldn’t have known what to do without my help.”

“I dunno,” Beaux said. “I think maybe I was meant to be a southerner in my bones. Good people, no snow, all this deep fried food and BBQ. I was made for this place.”

My dad laughed, and while they bickered about who was the Yankee and who could cook better, I focused on eating my food. Just enough to feel better, not too much my stomach would revolt again. It was always a tricky line and one I’d crossed in my early college days more than once.

Beaux refilled my coffee when it was empty and as he returned to the table, the front door opened and Jaxon appeared.

Once again, he was dressed in all black, his sunglasses tucked into the collar of his black T-shirt.

“Yum,” Melanie whispered.

She wasn’t talking about the food she was still trying to eat. I bumped her knee with mine and shushed her.

“Dear Lord, woman,” she whisper-hissed back. “If I can’t touch, at least let me look. Rambo Sexy Pants is the best cure for a hangover, even in visual form only.”

“We can all hear you,” Beaux said, his shoulders shaking with laughter. “You whisper as quietly as an elephant stomps.”

At the head of the table, Jaxon didn’t make any movement or give any indication he heard her. I was certain he was part robot.

Maybe more Terminator than Rambo.

Regardless, he arched a brow at Beaux. “You tell her yet?”

And…that was the sound of evading and pretending life wasn’t a shitstorm coming to an abrupt halt.

“What is it?”

“Finish your food,” Beaux said. “We’ll talk then.”

I wanted to argue, but I did what he said. What were a few more minutes to pretend we were just hanging out, enjoying a random morning of family and fun?

***

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