“You’re doing it wrong,” he says.
I glance over my shoulder. “You burn pancakes black enough to file a death certificate.”
“Exactly. I know the danger signs.”
“You’re not helping.”
“I’m supervising.”
“You’re looming.”
“Supervising tall.”
August sits at the little table in dinosaur pajamas, lining Blue Rex, Princess Chomp, and Throttle in front of his plate. His hair sticks up in three directions, and one cheek still has a pillow crease in it. He looks sleepy, safe, and offended by the delay in breakfast.
“Derby,” he says seriously, “Blue Rex says you’re distracting the cook.”
Derby points at the dinosaur. “Blue Rex ain’t seen what she just did to that batter.”
“I stirred it.”
His mouth curves.
It should not make my stomach flip. Not this early. Not with August at the table and a Queens of Anarchy burner phone sitting in my bedroom drawer like a snake with a battery.
But it does.
Derby in my trailer still feels new. Too big for the rooms. Too dark for the pale walls. Too much leather and muscle and road-scarred male heat standing next to my discount curtains and secondhand toaster. He hasn’t taken over. That is what keeps undoing me.
His cut is hanging on the chair by the door because I told him he could put it there. His toothbrush is in the bathroom because I said yes. His boots are on the mat because he noticed I swept yesterday and did not track mud across my floor.
Small things.
Huge things.
A man learning my door doesn’t belong to him unless I open it.
The pancake bubbles at the edges, and I flip it.
Perfect.
August claps.
Derby narrows his eyes. “Beginner’s luck.”
“Beginner?” I laugh. “You’re jealous.”
“Of boxed pancakes? Never.”
“Of my superior domestic skill.”
“I fixed your sink yesterday.”
“You tightened one pipe and swore at it.”
“It responded to authority.”
I laugh.