Page 58 of Reaper
She picks up a danish and takes a tentative bite. Her eyes go wide, then narrow with what looks like genuine anger.
"These are fucking delicious," she says, but there's a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "I hate your fucking guts for making them this good."
Something warm unfurls in my chest, better than any high I ever chased. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." She takes another bite, closing her eyes like she's savoring it. "Where the hell did you learn to bake like this?"
"Tank always said baking was just chemistry with better results." I pour myself coffee, lean against the counter. "It took me a long time to learn that lesson. Time that I spent mostly being handcuffed in his bakery, but eventually, I figured it out.”
“This guy kept you prisoner?”
“Yeah. Basically.”
“Was it a sexual thing?”
“No. He helped save my life,” I say. I hesitate, going back to that time in my mind; how fucked-up I was, how deep in my addiction, how Vanessa was still alive. “Kept me from relapsing. I sucked at baking at first. My pastries looked like rejects from a high school science class’s dissection project, but eventually, I got good enough that Tank said my pastries were ‘not total shit.’”
She takes another bite, smiles. “Fuck, if only more rehab programs took your brother Tank’s advice. Maybe he could train people or…”
I laugh. “He’d take your head off if you suggested that to him. He hates everyone except for his ol’ lady Bianca.”
“And you?”
“Tolerates me, maybe. Though I think there’s a part of him that still hates me, too. It’s just his nature. Just like how there’s a part of me that will always be an addict.”
She takes another pastry — a croissant this time — then takes a bite and moans. “I might be an addict, too. Goddamn, Reaper.”
I can’t help but grin, seeing the tension in her eyes and her hard edge soften, just a little; she’s still Adriana, she still looksabout as friendly or approachable as a rabid pitbull, but that’s a step up from how she looked earlier. “Have another.”
“Fuck you. I will.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a while, the tension from earlier slowly dissolving with each bite. I watch her face relax, the hard lines around her eyes softening as she works through a second croissant. There's something almost vulnerable about the way she's savoring each piece, like she's not used to someone taking care of her.
"This is weird," she says finally, not looking at me.
"The pastries?"
"No, asshole. The pastries are fucking delicious. I mean this. Whatever this is…" She gestures between us with her coffee mug. "Having someone make me breakfast. I've never... I mean, guys don't usually..." She trails off, shakes her head. "Forget it."
But I don't want to forget it. "Never had a guy make you breakfast before?"
Her cheeks flush slightly. "No. I'm usually the one who handles everything myself. Food, coffee, planning, execution. I don't let people take care of me."
"How's it feel?"
She considers this, taking another sip of coffee. "Good," she admits quietly. "Strange as hell, but good."
I can't help the grin that spreads across my face. Something warm and satisfied settles in my chest, knowing I gave her something she's never had before.
"I see that smug look on your face," she says, glaring at me over her mug. "Fuck you."
"Just glad you like it."
"Don't let it go to your head." But there's no real heat in her voice, and I catch the hint of a smile she's trying to hide.
The moment stretches between us, comfortable and dangerous at the same time. I could get used to this — morningswith her, making her breakfast, watching that armor she wears crack just a little. But reality crashes back in when I remember where we are, what we're up against.
"We can't stay here much longer," I say, the words tasting bitter after the sweetness of the pastries.
