Page 15 of Only for Tonight

“I’m fine.”

“There’s also more eggs. And toast. The toast is just sitting there. Getting cold. You can take more.”

“Oh my gosh.” She reaches for another piece of bacon, and something in my chest settles. “Happy?”

“Getting there.”

“Where’s Ella?” I ask.

“She woke up just before five. Fed, changed, rocked for a while until she stopped fussing. She went back down about ten minutes ago.” Ryleigh tears her bacon strip in half. “She has opinions about being awake before sunrise. I respect it.”

I glance at the clock. Just after eight. “You got up early then.”

“Sleep is a thing I used to enjoy. Now it’s more of a fond memory. Like affordable rent.”

“You should’ve come and gotten me. I could’ve helped.”

She gives me this look—not annoyed, more like she finds it genuinely endearing that I’d suggest such a thing. “You’ve done enough.”

She goes back to her eggs, completely unbothered, and I watch her for a second longer than I should—the way she eats, deliberate and unhurried now that there’s food in front of her. Last night she barely touched the snack platter at first, like she was rationing. Like she wasn’t sure when her next meal would come. This morning she’s more relaxed, and I’m glad. But I also notice she’s still not eating as much as she should.

“These eggs are perfect, by the way,” I tell her, and I mean it. I’ve paid stupid money at restaurants that couldn’t touch this.

She glances at me, and there it is—a quick flash of pride she doesn’t quite manage to hide. “Glad you like them. Least I could do.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true. You took in a complete stranger and her . . . well, another stranger’s baby. That’s not nothing.”

“It was no trouble.”

“It was definitely trouble.” She points her fork at me. “I’m trouble. Ella’s trouble. Together, we’re a lot of trouble. But I appreciate you pretending otherwise.”

I grin. “You’re welcome.”

She shakes her head but she’s smiling, and something about the ease of this—the banter, the morning light, the coffee—makes my chest feel full in a way I’m not used to.

“Can I ask you something?” I take another bite.

“Depends on what it is.”

“Last night you said you haven’t had a home-cooked meal in a while, but clearly you know what you’re doing in a kitchen. Where’d you learn?”

Something shifts behind her eyes. Not sadness, exactly. More like she’s reaching for something she keeps stored somewhere quiet, a drawer she doesn’t open for just anyone.

“My mom.” She wraps both hands around her mug. “She cooked everything from scratch. Sundays were her big thing—roast chicken, homemade biscuits, the whole deal. I used to sit on the counter while she worked. She’d hand me a wooden spoon and let me stir things, even when I was way too little to actually help.” A small, private smile. “I think she mostly just liked having me there.”

She takes a sip of coffee. The moment hangs between us, warm and fragile.

“Anyway. Long time ago.”

I want to ask more—about her parents, the accident she mentioned, what happened to the girl who sat on the counter with a wooden spoon. But she’s given me what she’s willing to give, and I know better than to push.

“Well, she taught you right,” I say. “Seriously. Best eggs I’ve had in years.”

Ryleigh meets my eyes, and her expression goes soft for just a second. “Thanks, Alexei.”

The way she says my name—my full name with this gentle, careful pronunciation like she’s trying to get it exactly right—does something to me that I’m going to have to think about later.