When I come downstairs, Tom has fixed breakfast. Same as every morning: two eggs over easy, two pieces of bacon, one slice of toast. Butter, strawberry jam, thinly spread.
I join him at the bar, taking the high-backed stool to his right, even though I know he prefers me to his left. It’s the gentlemen’s way, he explained once. Something about defending a woman’s honor. Swords and stuff. I forget the rest.
Right now, I couldn’t care less about honor. I care about breakfast.
I stab my fork into the eggs and shove them into my mouth.
Tom glares at me. “Something wrong with the eggs darling?”
It’s safe to say, I’m not a morning person.
I smile and swallow. That’s what got me into this mess. “They’re perfect,” I assure him. He senses I’m lying, but he can’t prove it because I take another
