Page 37 of Defying the Crown
"I work for the family business in government administration primarily." The familiar half-truth rolls off my tongue. "Lots of meetings, policy reviews, public relations. Rather dull stuff, actually." I pour the batter onto the hot griddle in careful circles, grateful for something to focus on besides her piercing gaze.
"And your family? They're all back in Denmark?"
My hand tightens on the spatula. "They are, yes." I flip a pancake with perhaps more force than necessary. "Daniel mentioned you're into punk music? He showed me some of the bands you've introduced him to."
Jayda's eyes narrow slightly at my obvious deflection. She sets down the coffee pot with deliberate care, and I can feel her reassessing me. The kitchen fills with the sizzle of pancakes and an undercurrent of tension.
Daniel slides his arms around my waist again, resting his chin on my shoulder. "These smell amazing."
I lean back into his embrace, grateful for the interruption. The warmth of his chest against my back grounds me, helps steady my racing thoughts.
"You're right," Jayda says after a moment, though her tone suggests she's filing away my evasiveness for later consideration. "The Ramones are always a good place to start for newcomers to punk."
"The Ramones are classic, but I've always had a soft spot for The Clash," I say, flipping another pancake. "London Calling got me through some particularly tedious state dinne- meetings, I mean."
"Oh, we've got ourselves a proper punk fan here." Jayda's eyes light up, her earlier suspicion momentarily forgotten. "What's your take on Dead Kennedys?"
"Holiday in Cambodia is brilliant." The tension in my shoulders eases as we drift into safer territory. "Though I suppose it hits different when you actually work in government."
Daniel snorts against my neck. "Harald's got jokes."
"Speaking of musical taste," Caleb pipes up from the doorway, pushing his thick-rimmed glasses up his nose. "Have you heard the new indie folk band from Portland? They onlyreleased twelve copies of their album on recycled vinyl-"
"No." Jayda points her coffee mug at him. "We are not doing this. Not everyone needs to know about your obscure bands that recorded their albums in abandoned grain silos."
"It was actually an old lighthouse," Caleb mutters.
"Even worse." Jayda turns back to me. "So, The Clash? Tell me you've got Better Living Through Chemistry on your playlist."
"Of course." I plate up the last pancake, grateful that my hands have stopped shaking. "Though I have to admit, Spanish Bombs speaks to me more."
"Decent taste." Jayda nods approvingly. "We might keep you around after all."
Daniel squeezes my waist, and I catch the relief in his expression. We've cleared the first hurdle, even if there are countless more ahead. For now, though, I'll take this small victory - standing in this cozy kitchen, talking punk rock with Daniel's chosen family while breakfast sizzles on the griddle.
I settle onto their worn leather couch, balancing my plate of pancakes on my knee. The living room buzzes with comfortable chaos - mismatched cushions, books stacked on every surface, and that wall of memories that keeps drawing my eye.
"Your home is wonderful," I say, meaning every word. "It feels truly lived in. My place back home is all straight lines and antiques nobody dares touch."
Daniel plops down beside me, close enough that our thighs touch. "Rich people problems?" He grins, nudging my shoulder.
"Something like that." I take a bite of pancake to avoid elaborating.
"Oh, you're looking at our wall of shame?" Jayda points with her fork toward the polaroids. "That's from our road trip to New Orleans last summer."
"The one where Danny tried to convince us he could speak French to that bartender?" Caleb snorts.
"Hey, I got us free drinks didn't I?"
"Because he felt sorry for you butchering his language." Jayda reaches up to tap a photo of the three of them, faces flushed and happy, holding hurricane cocktails. "But that weekend was epic."
Daniel leans forward, pointing to another snapshot. "And that's from when we drove to Maine for lobster rolls. Caleb got chased by seagulls."
"Those birds were organized," Caleb protests. "They had a battle plan."
I study each photo, drinking in these glimpses of Daniel's life - his real, messy, beautiful life. There he is laughing in front of the Grand Canyon, sprawled on a beach in Miami, pulling faces at a Christmas party. Such a contrast to my own carefully curated photo albums, full of formal events and practiced smiles.
"You all seem to have such adventures together," I say softly.
