Page 65 of The Mountain Man's Mail-Order Mafia Princess

For one second, I thought he might kiss me.

I wanted him to. I wanted his hands at my waist and his mouth on mine until neither of us could form another painful sentence.

He stepped back.

I curled my fingers against my palm.

“The eggs are probably ruined,” I said.

“They’re overcooked.”

“That’s a more accurate diagnosis.”

The corner of his mouth shifted without becoming a smile.

I turned toward the stove. “I can make another batch.”

“We can eat these.”

“They’re rubber.”

“They’re still food.”

“I refuse to let our emotional crisis lower our breakfast standards.”

Jonah watched me take another bowl from the cabinet.

“You’re making more eggs because you don’t know what else to do.”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“At least you admitted it.”

“Personal growth often looks like aggressive whisking.”

A breath of laughter escaped him, then faded.

I cracked the eggs into the bowl. Jonah sliced the remaining tomato without asking whether I wanted help.

Our hands nearly touched when he passed me the cheese.

Neither of us closed the distance.

We ate at the table.

Jonah didn’t interrogate me about the Russo organization. He didn’t ask for names, crimes, or details I couldn’t safely give him. He asked only what affected him.

“Does your father know where you’ll be before the celebration?”

“He knows this address. His driver brought me here.”

“Is anyone coming to the cabin?”

“No. The instructions were for the celebration.”

“Will his people cause trouble in town?”

“They won’t start anything. Daddy wants me to come home. He doesn’t want a public spectacle.”