Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 80451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
I’m plating the last pancake when I hear the soft pad of footsteps behind me. Isabel’s voice is still husky with sleep: “Morning.”
I turn, spatula in hand, and almost drop it. She’s in a loose T-shirt—mine, actually, or at least I think it is—and a pair of sleep shorts. Her dark hair is pulled into a messy bun, and the sight of her sets my pulse racing. Memories of last night flash before my eyes, and I push them down with a swallow. “Hey,” I manage, offering a smile I hope looks casual. “You’re up early.”
She steps closer to the stove, eyes flicking to the pancakes. “Oh, wow. You made breakfast?”
I nod, flipping off the burner and pulling the pan away. “Yeah. Thought we could, uh, have something decent for once. Sorry I didn’t have fresh fruit… or Nutella.” I give her a sheepish grin, gesturing at the chocolate syrup drizzled across the top. “I improvised.”
She gives a small, amused smile, though there’s a tension in her eyes. I’m sure it probably echoes my own. “Chocolate syrup and dried cranberries, huh? That’s… original.”
I shrug, setting the plate down on the small kitchen table. “You said you liked pancakes. Figured I’d give it a shot.”
Her grin warms a fraction, and she slides into one of the chairs. “I appreciate it. Wanna join me?”
I grab two forks and a pair of plates. My stomach churns with a mix of nerves and excitement. We spent the night pushing uncharted territory, so I’m half-worried breakfast might be awkward. But as she digs into the first pancake, I see curiosity in her eyes. I settle in across from her, cutting a bite of pancake for myself. The chocolate syrup glistens like tar on a highway, the dried cranberries looking suspiciously out of place.
Still, I lift the fork to my mouth, bracing for the taste. It’s… bizarre. The pancake itself is fine, fluffy and warm, but the combination of sweet syrup and tangy dried fruit is downright jarring. I nearly choke on the flavor. “Uh,” I manage, trying to swallow as quickly as possible.
Isabel’s eyes widen, and she fumbles for her napkin, coughing out a tiny laugh. “Oh my God, it’s terrible.”
I force it down, my entire face scrunching in sympathy. “Yeah, that’s, um… it’s not what I expected.”
She sets her fork aside, her cheeks coloring as she tries to stifle a giggle. “I’m so sorry, Lincoln, but that’s absolutely vile.”
For half a second, embarrassment flares in my chest. But then I watch her giggles transform into full-blown laughter, and something inside me unclenches. I can’t help but join in, the ridiculousness of the situation too great to ignore. We’re on the cusp of a dangerous mission, the memory of last night still burning between us, and here we are, choking on the world’s worst pancake concoction. It’s absurd, and it’s hilarious.
“Guess I should’ve stuck to plain syrup,” I say, pushing the plate away, still chuckling.
Isabel wipes her eyes, tears of laughter shining. “No offense, but this is worse than those MREs you said you ate in the military.”
“Oh, it’s definitely worse,” I reply, feigning a shudder. “At least those had some flavor.”
She tries to regain composure, though another wave of giggles escapes when she looks at the pancake massacre on her plate. “Well, A for effort,” she says. “We can, uh, salvage the morning with some coffee, maybe toast.”
I nod, grabbing our plates to dispose of the evidence. “Deal. I’ll toss this and brew some coffee. You want to do the toast?”
“Sure.” She stands, glancing around the cupboards. The tension in the air softens into something warm, affectionate, as we shuffle around each other in the small kitchen—me rinsing plates, her rummaging for bread. The memory of last night hovers in the background, but the laughter helps ease the weight. We’re still us, even if everything is different now.
Soon, we’re seated at the table again, armed with cups of coffee and plain toast. It’s not glamorous, but at least it’s edible. Isabel tears off a corner of her toast, chewing thoughtfully, and I sense she’s working up to say something.
“Last night,” she begins softly, her eyes darting up to meet mine. “I just… I want you to know that I don’t regret it.”
My chest tightens, and a swarm of emotions floods me—relief, gratitude, an undercurrent of longing. “Me neither,” I say. “I was worried maybe I’d crossed a line, or we had, you know…”
She shakes her head, a small smile curving her lips. “No. I mean, yes, we definitely crossed a line, but it’s not like we didn’t both want it.” Her cheeks color at the admission.
I lean forward, resting my arms on the table. “I just want to make sure you’re okay. With the mission, with us, with all of it.”
She exhales, looking contemplative. “I am. It’s a lot, and I’m still wrapping my head around the fact that we have to pretend we’re married in, like, a day. But… I’m okay.”