The kitchen is gleaming white and very expensive. The sun coming through the floor-to-ceiling glass dazzles the eyes, but also makes the space weirdly peaceful, like I’m the only person alive in a world made for me. I drop butter into a pan, watch it fizz and melt, and try not to cry because it smells absolutely heavenly.
The fridge is still a wonder: every shelf lined with perfectly organized cartons, jars, tiny glass bottles of expensive milk. I pull out a packet of smoked bacon, and line the slices on the griddle. I don’t remember ever cooking in my old life, but somehow my hands know what to do. It’s muscle memory,maybe, or just something ancient and female buried in my bones.
When the bacon starts to curl, I grab a glass bottle of maple syrup from the fridge, pop the cap, and inhale. It’s so rich and sweet it’s almost floral, and for a second I want to tip the bottle straight into my mouth. Instead, I set it on the counter and go back to the eggs.
The yolks are golden, the color of a yellow dress I might have owned once. I whisk egg, salt, pepper, and milk together, and pour the mixture into the buttery pan. The eggs sizzle. The whole place smells like a storybook morning, which is so impossibly normal that it almost breaks me.
I move to the coffee machine, because Hunter likes his joe, and I want to have it ready for him. The machine is industrial, with more dials and levers than a spaceship, but I figure it out—grind, tamp, click, and suddenly the whole room is alive with the sound of the espresso shot hitting the cup. The smell is dark and sharp, almost enough to cut through the fog in my head.
I’m flipping the pancakes (yes, pancakes—Hunter’s housekeeper left a pre-mixed batter in the fridge, bless her), when it happens.
I look up and the kitchen is gone.
Instead, I’m somewhere else—a smaller, darker room, with yellow curtains over the windows and a chipped blue mixing bowl on the counter. The walls are a strange brown, and there are magnets shaped like cows all over the fridge. There’s a girl at the table—me, but not me, younger and angry, yelling at a man who stands in the doorway. His face is in shadow. He’s saying something I can’t hear, but his hand gestures are angry, and he holds a mug with a cartoon cat on it. I try to speak, but the wholescene flashes and I’m back in the penthouse, pancakes burning and the spatula on the floor.
What was that? My hands are shaking. My knees are weak. I stare at the eggs, which have solidified into a yellow mat, then at the bacon, which is now curling to a crisp. I want to scream, or maybe cry, but the memory’s already slipping away, like someone’s yanked it back behind a wall. I stand there, trying to breathe, when I hear footsteps from the hall.
It’s Hunter.
He’s in sweats, navy blue, and a black T-shirt with the word “STATE” in neat white block letters. His dark hair is still wet, curling in front, and he smells like expensive soap and warm man. He rubs one eye, sees me, and stops mid-stride.
“You’re up early,” he says, voice still gravelly.
“I made breakfast,” I manage. I try to smile, but my lips just quiver. “I mean, I tried.”
Hunter comes closer, glances at the pan, then at my face. He’s holding his phone in one hand, and even though I know he’s been up for all of sixty seconds, he looks hesitant.
“You okay?” he says, setting the phone on the island. “You look?—”
“Fine,” I say, too fast. “Just a little dizzy. The sun’s really bright in here.”
He studies me for a beat, then goes to the fridge, grabs a bottle of water, and hands it over. I clutch it, cold sweating against my palm.
He takes a deep breath, then pours himself a coffee. He drinks it black, no sugar, which is far too strong for me. But the alpha male sits on a stool at the island, scrolls his phone, and pauses. He glances at me to keep an eye on things.
I wipe my hands on the dish towel, try to gather the pancakes and bacon onto a plate, but the memory flash has left me weak and weirdly hollow.
Hunter’s phone vibrates, and this time he really looks at the screen. His face goes hard, then pale.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, voice soft.
He shakes his head, doesn’t answer at first. He sets the phone on the counter, but his hand stays clenched around it, the knuckles white.
“It’s nothing,” he growls, but I know that look. It means he’s determined. He wants something - and as a predator, he’s going to get it.
I bring the plate of food to the island and seat myself next to that huge male form. I nudge his arm with my elbow, a joke that used to work on boys back when I went to high school. He doesn’t laugh, but he does smile slightly, the movement a shadow on his mobile lips.
“Eat,” I say. “I made the bacon extra crispy. Like you like it.”
He forks a piece, chews, then sets it down. “You had another one, didn’t you?”
I freeze, bacon halfway to my lips. “What do you mean? Another what?”
He holds my eyes. “A memory.”
I look down at the plate, pick at the edge of a pancake, syrup pooling on my finger. “Yeah,” I say, so quiet I barely hear myself. “It was… I don’t know. It felt real. Like a movie I was inside of. There was a kitchen. Yellow curtains. A blue bowl.”
Hunter’s eyes flick to the side, as if he’s running through a file in his brain.