CHAPTER TEN

LINDY

Giving up on jogging my memory of last evening, I get up and head to the kitchen to see what's available for breakfast. It's the least I can do to thank Timber for keeping me safe in the crowd of strangers at Rust.

A white light highlights the empty refrigerator shelves aside from basic milk, eggs, butter, and a six pack of beer. The cabinets don't offer much more except for bread and some other staple items.

"Okay… A simple breakfast it is," I drawl, collecting the ingredients for scrambled eggs and toast. There's one lone pan in a lower cabinet, so I start heating that up on the stove as I grab two plates. They're mismatched plastic circles—most likely the dollar ones from WalMart.

The Reaper's Wolves really didn't spend much to make this a comfortable place to stay. Every guest is forced to live off the bare necessities.

Humming that song in my head, I push the sleeves of my borrowed hoodie to my elbows and whisk the eggs and milk with a fork before pouring the prepared mixture into the pan.

After they're all fluffed and seasoned with salt and pepper I discovered in a drawer, I split the eggs on the two plates, giving Timber the majority. When I turn to toast the bread—my mind focused on remembering the next lyrics to the old childhood song—the man in question is standing in the bathroom doorway, eyeing me curiously.

I have a slight McSteamy moment with his low-riding black sweatpants and semi-transparent white tee. Tattoos decorate most of his bulky frame, tapering down his muscular chest, and it's a sight to behold. So much so, my gaze refuses to tear itself away from the temptation of deciphering the images beneath the flimsy cotton.

Quit ogling him!

"I'm making breakfast," I squeak before clearing my throat, whipping back toward the toaster. "Consider it a thank you."

Timber doesn't respond, just sits down at the dining table with a confused look on his face. He seems more wary than he was before the shower.

"For keeping me safe last night," I clarify.

Our toast pops up, and I breathe a sigh of relief that it isn't too dark. I adjusted the toaster settings, but one can never be too certain. A memory of Dean tossing out my effort to make him a birthday breakfast flashes in my mind, but I shove it away.

Adding a few pieces to Timber's plate, I place it in front of him along with the butter and a knife.

"Do you want water or milk to drink?" I ask as I search for cups. They aren't hard to find since there's hardly anything to find.

His chair scrapes across the vinyl flooring as he prepares to fill his own glass when I stop him with a hand on his arm. "I'll get it. This is your thank you, remember?"

He pauses then mumbles, "Milk."

After setting his drink in front of him, I do a quick kitchen clean-up then join him at the small table with my breakfast.

It doesn't look like he's touched anything yet.

Freaking out a little, I shove a bite of eggs into my mouth to make sure they're edible, but they taste fine to me.

That doesn't mean anything.

Dean could always find problems.

Damn, yesterday really messed with my head if Dean's invading my thoughts so thoroughly.

With the help of therapy and the support of my friends, my mental health has improved drastically since leaving my ex, and I don't think of him nearly as often as I used to. But between seeing him at the Club Wolf fire, receiving those mystery flowers, and puking my guts out yesterday, the ghost of Dean has weaseled its way back into my head.

"Are you okay? Is something wrong?" I ask. This whole situation feels awkward. Somehow our roles have reversed. Now, I'm making sure he's alright when I don't understand what could've gone wrong.

My questions shake him from wherever he was because he begins eating, and I follow suit. Things are quiet—even our forks against the plates don't make much sound.

Usually, I prefer a peaceful calm, but this is a little unnerving.

I don't like feeling like I'm walking on eggshells around a person. I've done enough of that to last a lifetime.

"It must be handy having this place in town, huh?" Not the most interesting question, but it's all I can think of. Generally, I'm not the one having to pull information out of people. They're all too happy to provide it themselves with no prompting, except for Timber.

He nods but doesn't elaborate.

Okay…