Page 133 of Spicy Ever After
That he is in trouble.
But all signs point to that.
My heart twists. For Beck. For his dad.
What would happen to them if they lost this place?
“The farm is not the only thing that matters.”
Beck’s words rise up into consciousness. A memory that my heart must have tucked away last night since my brain wasn’t worth shit.
The “Hell, yes, I’m talking about you,” follows in its footsteps.
I meant what I said. I’d drop everything to help him.
Of course, I don’t have much to drop.
And I don’t know how I can help.
I push up from the table, drain the last of my coffee, and set down the mug with a decisive thunk.
I can start by not sitting on my ass while he runs a damn farm.
I carry my dishes to the sink where Beck and his dad’s breakfast dishes sit. Surveying the kitchen, I find some plasticware and put the rest of the cinnamon rolls in the fridge. After I rinse the dishes and load the dishwasher, I wipe down the counters, dump the coffee filter, and give the basket and carafe a rinse.
It’s a quarter after eleven. Beck will break for lunch in about an hour.
Plenty of time to fix him something to eat.
I look through the fridge and pantry, cataloguing what I have to work with. Eggs, bacon, lettuce, avocados, apples, some leftover rotisserie chicken. Hot dogs, but no buns. Jelly but I can’t find peanut butter.
Not that I’d make him a PB and J, call it lunch, and still be able to look him in the eye.
My cooking prowess is pretty lame, but I have a phone and the internet.
Making a decent lunch can’t be that hard, right?
Beck walks into the kitchen an hour later to find me on a step stool, elbow deep in the microwave, sweating and cursing.
He halts in the doorway, surveys the damage, and then frowns at me.
“You okay, gorgeous?”
I push a loose lock of hair behind my ear, not exactly meeting his eyes. “Did you know you can’t boil eggs in the microwave?”
A choking sound tries to escape his throat, and when I make myself look at him, he’s biting down on both lips, eyes wide.
Beck clears his throat. “Um… yeah, I knew that.” His gaze trails to the cast iron skillet on the stove. The grease inside of it is black.
“Also, I might’ve had the flame up too high on the bacon,” I confess. The carnage is hidden in the trash under grease-soaked paper towels, but the smell of charred pork hangs in the air.
“Where’s Pop?”
I wince. “He… decided to go sit on the back porch…” I make myself say it. “After the smoke alarm went off.”
Beck’s eyes widen. He crosses the kitchen and gently takes me by the wrist, inspecting the bandage on my left hand.
“Did you burn yourself?”
