Page 73 of Spicy Ever After
It’s fucking 8:12.
I leap out of bed, knowing I’m more than an hour late to fix Pop’s breakfast. It’s only after I’ve yanked on a pair of jeans and opened my bedroom door that the aroma of coffee and the smell of something baking finally hit me.
Griffin. Oh, thank Christ.
Voices reach me when I descend the stairs, and I hit the kitchen as Grif is dragging a cast iron skillet out of the oven.
“Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he teases. When he sets down the pan on a waiting dishcloth in the middle of the kitchen table, it holds corn bread. Mom’s recipe.
Oh man. My mouth waters.
“Morning,” I croak. “Smells good. Mornin’ Pop.”
My dad sits at the head of the table, gripping his spill-proof insulated mug, eyes on the newspaper spread out in front of him. He grunts in greeting.
Since he doesn’t bust my balls for sleeping in, I’m guessing he’s in a decent mood. Probably thanks to the pan of cornbread my brother is currently slathering with butter.
Thunder rattles the windows as I fill a coffee mug.
“It’s like the earth knows our boy needed to sleep in.” Griffin smirks wickedly as he drags a slab of melting butter over the cornbread.
I pull out a chair and sit, glaring at him over my coffee. Ignoring me, Griffin scores the cornbread into thick wedges.
“Staying up on the phone all night isn’t as easy as it used to be, huh, Beck?” He’s enjoying this, the bastard.
Griffin digs the knife into the cornbread and hefts a steaming wedge onto a plate. Then he sets it down in front of Pop, puffing his chest out like it’s a big game kill.
“That looks damn good,” Pop mutters, almost smiling. Almost. “We got any Steen’s?”
I stand before Griffin can. “I’ll get it.” This is as close as Pop comes to asking for help.
I come back with the tin of cane syrup and do the honors so he doesn’t have to.
“Say when.”
“Just a little,” he grunts as I pour. “Don’t drown it.”
Griffin has served us too, and I’m pouring my own syrup, almost smug that Pop hasn’t reacted to my brother’s outing, when the bomb drops.
“Haven’t heard you laughing like that in a good while,” Pop mutters before forking a bite of cornbread into his mouth.
Shit.
“Sorry. I hope I didn’t keep y’all up.”
“Don’t sleep much anyway. Legs don’t let me.” Pop grumbles. And then, “What’s her name?”
I choke on cane syrup while Griffin smothers a laugh behind his napkin.
“Um… Hattie.”
Pop scowls. “You had to think about it, boy?”
I scowl back. “No. Her name is Hattie.” I don’t tell him why I hesitated. I’m not even sure I know. But I think it came from an urge to guard this.
To guard Hattie.
And this tingling ache in my chest.
