"What?" Vaughn looks alarmed. "Are they that bad?"
"No, I just—" I gasp between laughs. "I just realized. I never have to deal with Gordon again."
Vaughn goes still. Then he sits on the edge of the bed and watches me laugh about the worst job I ever had.
"Seven years," I say, wiping my eyes. "Seven years of being told I'm incompetent. That my fondant is fussy. That my plating is art school bullshit. He once made me redo an entire wedding cake because the roses were 'too perfect' and he said they made the bride look bad by comparison."
"He sounds like an asshole."
"The biggest asshole. He threw a pan at me. He changed menus at midnight. He scrapped my work for fun. And I saidyes, Chefevery single time because I didn't know I was allowed to say anything else." I take another bite of terrible, perfect eggs. "I'm absolutely fucked for money. I'm unemployed with seven stitches and one working hand. But never hearing Gordon scream my last name at 5 AM again? Worth it."
Vaughn smiles. Comes around and kisses me properly. I can taste coffee on his tongue.
"You'll find something better," he says against my mouth.
"Mm." I pull back, give him my best flirty smile despite the pain and the tears and the general disaster that is my current existence. "You know, some things I don't even need hands for."
He laughs — loud, genuine, the kind of laugh I'm still collecting because each one feels rare. "Eat your breakfast."
"But Vaughn—"
"Breakfast first. Everything else when you're healed."
"I'm not injured in the relevant areas."
"Robin."
"Fine." I pick up my fork with dramatic martyrdom. "But for the record, these eggs are perfect."
"They're overdone."
"Perfect for me. Because you made them."
His face does the thing — the Vaughn thing, where the gruffness cracks and something tender shows through, just for a second, before he covers it back up. I want to live in that crack. I want to build a house there.
He steals the bacon back. "Eat."
"You're very bossy in the morning."
I finish my breakfast, every overdone bite, and he clears the plate without being asked. Rinses it. Puts it in Ash's fancy dishwasher with its twelve settings. Comes back to me.
"Couch?" he says.
"Couch," I agree. "You pick what we watch."
"I pick?"
"Terrible eggs, terrible taste in movies. I'm committed to the theme."
He carries me to the couch. Literally picks me up and carries me, and I don't even protest because my legs are shaky from the pain meds and because being carried by Vaughn is an experience I've been undervaluing.
He settles me against the cushions. Cloud blanket. Water. Pain pills within reach. Then he stretches out beside me and pulls me against his chest and turns on a documentary about engine restoration that I will roast him for choosing but secretly find soothing because his heartbeat is steady under my ear and his voice rumbles when he explains the difference between a flat-head and an overhead valve, and I am warm and held and home.
My hand throbs. I have no job. My savings won't last a month.
But Vaughn's here, making me terrible breakfast and promising everything will be okay, and for the first time in years, I actually believe someone when they say that.
Chapter 20