It’s almost as if I can see her using brick and mortar to build a wall right between us. She couldn’t be more obvious with her distance.
The last thing I want is distance between us, but she’s skittish, and I think one bad move on my end will send me a few lightyears behind when it comes to winning her back. I need to tread carefully.
“Whatever you want,” I say quietly.
She takes another step back. “Okay.” I can see her wanting to say something else, but she closes her mouth and turns on her heel. She walks over to the dining room table, grabs the shortbread and flowers, and takes them to her room, turning the lights off as she goes.
Cloaked in the dark of the night, I lie there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the uphill battle I’m about to face. This could be stupid.
This could be very selfish on my end.
Something learned?
I haven’t spoken to my pa, as what would be the point? He thinks I’m a screwup and that will probably never change. But hurting Cora? That was abhorrent. I’m so fucking angry at him. I won’t let him win this inane war he has with me.
I love her.
Which is also why I would never forgive myself if I at least didn’t try to win her back.
“What’s that smell?” Cora asks, coming downstairs. Her hair is wet from her shower and she’s dressed in a pair of sweats and a long-sleeved T-shirt that clings to her arms, chest, and waist. She pulls off comfortable yet sexy very well.
“Breakfast,” I say from the dining room table, where I’m sitting next to a takeout bag that was just delivered.
“Oh.” She pauses at the bottom of the stairs.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “You don’t have to eat with me. You can take it up to your room. I know you have work to do.” I pull out a take-away box and set it down. I lift the lid and see the breakfast I ordered for her. “This is yours. Orange almond French toast.”
Her eyes light up.
“I know how much you like it,” I say. I push it toward the edge of the table and then pull out my breakfast. Banana and grain pancakes with caramel syrup. I grab the cutlery I snagged from the kitchen, pop open my take-away box, and dig in. The pancakes are smothered in syrup, just the way I like them, and steaming hot.
I don’t say another word because I know she doesn’t want to talk. Instead, I enjoy my breakfast and wait to see what her next move is.
After a few drawn-out seconds, she steps up to the dining room table and asks, “Do you need a drink?”
I move the carryout bag to the side, revealing my bottle of water, and say, “I’m good.”
She nods and picks up her box. “Okay.”
“Here.” I push a fork toward her. “Enjoy.”
She picks up the fork, and her eyes fall to the chair across from mine. For a brief second, I think she’s about to sit with me, but she instead walks into the kitchen and opens the fridge to grab herself a drink.
When she turns around, I keep my eyes on my breakfast and listen to her steps. She stops in the dining room and says, “Thank you for breakfast.”
“Yup,” I say with a quick wave, but then pick up my mobile and pretend to scroll through it as she walks back upstairs. When I hear her door click shut, I sit back in my chair and let out a deep sigh.
Fuck, that felt incredibly awkward. More awkward than any other interaction I’ve had with her.
Worried, I shoot a text over to Killian.
Pike: Things went from hostile to awkward. I think my balls just shriveled from the conversation we shared.
I prepare another mouthful of pancakes and shove it in my mouth just as Killian texts back.
Killian: Awkward is good.
Pike: How is awkward good?
Killian: Because awkward means that there could be feelings there, she just doesn’t know what to do with them, how to react. Seems like she’s cooled down from her anger and now is fishing around for a new normal with you.
Pike: You think so?
Killian: I’m just guessing. Since I’m not there, I really have no clue, but from what you’re telling me, that would be my assumption.
Pike: So, keep going?
Killian: It’s been one day, you clod. Yes, keep going.
“Dinner is good,” I say to Cora, filling the silence that is otherwise only broken by the clanking of our cutlery.
“Thank you,” she says, staring at her plate of mashed potatoes, peas, and chicken. It’s very similar to the very first meal she made me, but nothing is charred and the peas aren’t smashed.
We’ve been . . . cordial . . . to each other all day and it’s slowly driving me crazy.