“Breakfast’s ready!”
I start. Emma, I think blearily. I’m at her house now. I’ll be late for school.
Then my surroundings sink in—the living room, the drawings on the table, the pictures on the walls. My apartment.
Fuck, I dozed off on my sofa. It still takes me a moment to remember whose voice that is and why she’s making me breakfast.
Large blue eyes, a teasing grin. ‘Where can you find better than me, huh?’
Hell. I snort. It shouldn’t amuse me so much, but I guess I’m relieved she jokes about it. Probably means she’s not serious about moving in with me, like she’s not serious about the dragon tattoo. She’s a happy person with no need of saving.
No need of me to save her.
And that’s good, that’s fucking awesome, and it lifts a weight off my chest. So it’s odd that, as I stand up with a groan and stagger around the sofa, aiming for the kitchen, I feel a pang in my chest.
She has no fucking need of me at all.
Suck it up, Zane. That’s good. Good for her.
Then I enter the kitchen and lose my train of thought. I just stare. The table is laid with fried eggs, bacon, toast, orange juice and coffee.
“Shit. You brought all this with you?” I glance back at her handbag lying on the armchair. “In that?”
She giggles and covers her mouth with her hand. “They were in your fridge. Don’t you even know what food you have in your house?”
Obviously not. “Erin must have left it.” The smell of the food brings bile to my throat. The kitchen spins slowly, and I grab the back of a chair not to fall.
“But surely you’ve opened the fridge since then… Didn’t you?” She frowns. “Damn, Zane, when was the last time you ate?”
Good question. “You brought me a chicken salad sandwich the other day.”
“That was days ago. Zane…”
“I ate more stuff.” I sink in the chair and wave a hand back and forth. “Too fucking drunk to think right now, okay?”
I remember eating a h
am sandwich the day after, and during the weekend… Did I eat anything? Driving between the house and the hospital, sitting by Emma’s bed, taking care of the kids… I must have. I just can’t remember.
In fact, I don’t remember much from the weekend, and it’s not because of the whiskey. The memories are already fuzzy, covered in haze. My mind tends to erase stressful times. Hell, I’m missing substantial chunks of my childhood. There’s a reason I avoid therapists. I guess I just don’t wanna fucking know what I’ve forgotten.
“Zane?” She’s staring at me with those wide blue eyes.
Crap, I’ve spaced out. I draw the plate of eggs toward me, grab a fork and dig in. “This is good.”
Her cheeks color again. “Does that mean I’ve passed my first test?”
“Test?”
She rolls her eyes. “To be your roommate, of course.”
Of course. I snort and wash down the eggs with orange juice. “You think it’s that easy?”
“What else do you want?”
Fuck, is that a trick question? I look across the table at her. She sucks her bottom lip between her small, white teeth, and I forget to chew for a second. Breakfast is great, but what I really want is to get down-and-dirty with her, rip her already ripped jeans, shred her T-shirt, lick her everywhere, taste her pussy.
“Nothing,” I lie. I scrub my hands over my face. My head is killing me. “I’m good.”