Page 67 of Catnip, Claws, and Chaos

“That doesn't smell right,” I whisper, frantically attempting to salvage the few pieces caught in bacon purgatory between raw and cremated.

A shrill, piercing beep slices through the air, startling me into dropping the spatula with a clatter. The smoke detector screams its warning.

“Shit!” I grab a dish towel, waving it frantically above my head, but the beeping continues, mocking my efforts.

Logan materializes beside me, reaching past to switch off the griddle and stove. I hadn't even noticed the black smoke rising from my pancake abomination. He lifts the bacon pan, depositing it in the sink with a hiss of protest from the hot metal meeting cold water. Windows open under his efficient movements while I continue my ineffectual towel dance.

Eventually, the smoke dissipates enough for the alarm to surrender its assault on our eardrums. Logan's immaculate kitchen resembles ground zero of a flour bomb detonation. Thepancakefused to the griddle might require an industrial solvent to remove.

I lower my arms, still clutching the dish towel, and reluctantly meet Logan's gaze. To my surprise, his expression holds no anger. His lips are pressed tightly together, and his shoulders shake with barely contained laughter.

“Don't you dare,” I warn, brandishing the towel like a weapon.

He loses the battle with himself and tilts his head back, folding at the waist as he bursts out laughing, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Your face,” he gasps between fits. “You look?—”

I try to keep my dignity, but it's a lost cause. Laughter bubbles up from my chest, escaping in hiccupping giggles that quickly evolve into full-bodied howls.

“It's not funny!” I protest through my betraying laughter. “I was trying to do something nice!”

“I know,” Logan manages, straightening and wiping his eyes. “That's what makes it so—” He gestures helplessly at the chaos surrounding us before dissolving into renewed laughter. “Come here,” he says, recovering enough to speak coherently. He pulls me against him. “Thank you for trying.”

“I'm actually a decent cook,” I mumble against his skin, inhaling his scent beneath the smokiness clinging to us both. “I just got... distracted.”

“By what?” He strokes my flour-dusted hair, dislodging a cascade of white powder.

“You. Walking around half-naked, looking like some Greek god. It's very inconsiderate when someone's trying to focus on the science of pancake-making.”

He chuckles. “I'll wear a T-shirt next time you're cooking.”

“There won't be a next time.” I groan. “I've learned my lesson.”

He brushes flour from my cheek with his thumb. “How about we clean this disaster zone and order breakfast?”

“Deal.” I heave a dramatic sigh. “Though this has severely damaged my domestic goddess aspirations.”

“Trust me, Emily,” he says, pulling me in for a kiss, “you possess many other... talents that more than compensate for your culinary shortcomings.”

“Is that so?” My eyebrow arches as I slide my hands down his chest, leaving floury handprints in my wake.

“Mmm-hmm. But first, we clean.”

“Slave driver,” I grumble, reaching for a sponge.

We work side by side, scrubbing surfaces and wiping spills.

“I think this requires industrial intervention,” Logan announces, examining the pancake monstrosity still welded to the griddle. He prods it experimentally with a knife, which bounces off the surface with a dull thud.

“We could frame it,” I suggest, struck by inspiration. “Call it Breakfast Deconstructed and sell it to MOMA for millions.”

He snorts, continuing his assault on the solidified batter. “The smoke damage alone disqualifies it as serious art.”

“Critic,” I accuse, bumping his hip with mine.

His arm snakes around my waist, pulling me against him despite my flour-encrusted state. “What am I going to do with you, Emily Baker?”

“Keep me?” The words slip out unfiltered, and a raw vulnerability shows before I can shield it.

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