Page 59 of Runaway Road (Runaway 1)

I walked up behind him, rising on my toes for a kiss. “I’m going to get out of here before Wy—”

“Morning, Dad. Miss Londyn.” Wyatt came into the kitchen wearing nearly the same thing as his father, except his Cohen’s Garage T-shirt was gray and his shorts tan.

“Hey, kid. You hungry?” Brooks asked over his shoulder.

“Starving.” Wyatt took a seat at the kitchen island, his eyes foggy with sleep. He blushed when he met my gaze, then dropped his eyes to the plate Brooks had set out already.

Oh, shit. Had he heard us last night? I looked up at Brooks, mortified that his son might have heard me moaning into a pillow, but he was no help. He shrugged.

“I’m gonna go,” I mouthed.

“Coffee or orange juice?”

“Orange juice. But—”

“Wyatt, will you get Londyn a glass of orange juice? And pour one for me and you too, please.”

“Sure, Dad.” He yawned, sliding off his stool.

“Brooks, I’m a wreck. I’m wearing a swimsuit and yesterday’s clothes,” I whispered.

He leaned in close as Wyatt shuffled around the kitchen, getting our drinks. “You can change after breakfast.”

“I can’t stay and eat with you guys. It’s bad enough I’m doing the walk of shame in front of your son.”

“He’s sixteen, not six. Besides, it’s your turn. I’ve been doing the walk of shame past Meggie for a week.”

“This is totally different.”

A grin tugged at his lips. “Wyatt, do you care if Londyn is wearing the same clothes she was yesterday?”

“Brooks,” I hissed, swatting him in the chest at the same time Wyatt said, “No.”

“See?” Brooks smiled. “Go sit down. This is ready.”

“Fine,” I muttered, going to the island. I took the stool on the right, leaving the one between me and Wyatt for Brooks. He came over with the pan, plated our eggs and returned with a heaping plate of bacon. “That’s a lot of pork.”

Brooks nodded at Wyatt. “Remember what I told you yesterday? Growing boy.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever forget seeing one person consume an entire extra-large pizza.”

Wyatt stayed quiet—was he sleepwalking?—then piled a fistful of bacon strips on top of his eggs.

“Wyatt takes a while to wake up,” Brooks said.

But he had no problem eating. The teenager dove into his plate with the same gusto as he had the pizza last night. By the time he’d shoveled half his eggs and two strips into his mouth, he seemed coherent. “What time are we leaving today, Dad?”

“I don’t know,” Brooks said, taking bacon for his own plate and putting one piece on mine. “How long will it take you to get ready?”

When Wyatt didn’t answer, I looked up to find Brooks had asked me the question. “Me? Get ready for what?”

“We’re spending the day at my parents’ place.”

“No.” The son was one thing, but his parents? Never happening.

“Why not? They’re the best and it’ll be fun. We’re taking their boat out.”

“Granddad’s boat is