The Truce by Breanna Riley

Author:Breanna Riley [Breanna Riley]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Breanna Riley
Published: 2022-10-06T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

Do I have egg on my face?

Josie

This time when I wake after sharing a bed with Levi, I am not greeted with his intoxicating smell and heat. Instead, the morning light is making it feel like one of Molly’s woodpeckers is boring a hole in my temple.

Rustling noises in the kitchen have me sitting and trying to put my feet on the floor. The world spins a little before I notice the bottle of painkillers and sweating bottle of red Gatorade. I greedily suck down half of it after popping four Ibuprofen.

The question now is who’s in the kitchen, and who is my mystery hydrator? I suspect Billie is still down for the count, so that leaves Molly…or Levi. I sneak out, the smell of coffee too alluring to keep me cowering.

Levi is standing fully dressed in my kitchen cooking eggs.

Levi is standing in my kitchen cooking eggs.

It’s so…domestic. The smell is tantalizing and watching him move around my kitchen is doing something for me. Warming a part of my soul I didn’t know existed.

I rub sleep from my eyes and climb onto a barstool, laying my head in my arms on the countertop, the cold tile cooling my heated face. He, on the other hand, looks like he’s showered, shaved, ran ten miles, cured cancer, and sent his mother three years’ worth of gifts—in advance. He doesn’t even have the decency to have bedhead.

“Why are you so chipper?” I groan. A steaming cup of coffee is placed near my head, and I eye it suspiciously. Wordlessly, Levi opens the fridge and sets the bottle of coffee creamer next to it.

“I hope you like eggs and potatoes,” he says, plating both and setting them next to the coffee before he finds a fork.

“I had potatoes? Or eggs for that matter? Billie doesn’t eat that, and I don’t cook.”

“I got them from my house. And I cook. Do you think I only ate pizza and beer in my bachelorhood?”

“But-but-how’d you know where the forks were?”

“I’ve been up for an hour,” he chuckles. “I had plenty of time to familiarize myself with your kitchen. Eat up, grease is good for a hangover.”

Serving a second plate, he sticks it in the oven, I’m assuming for Billie; it’s even free of eggs. I poke a potato with my fork, taking a bite before I add creamer to my coffee. It’s all amazing; the eggs are fluffy, the potatoes crisp, the coffee is perfect and goes down smooth.

“What’d I do to deserve this?” I ask between bites.

“It’s my way of saying sorry,” he says quietly.

“Mhmm. It’s delicious. Thank you, you didn’t have to.”

“I did. I was obviously into…into it just as much as you were. I was being a giant hypocrite. I’m sorry and it won’t happen again.”

“It will, don’t worry.” With a smile, I set down my fork. “Did we just have a normal conversation?”

He smirks at me over the edge of his coffee mug. It says “Pot Head” and has a coffee pot on it.

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