Page 70 of Again, In Autumn

“Okay.”

I turn off the griddle, pull a plate down from the cabinet and plop a few pancakes on it. I hold them out to David. “Here.”

“He requested you bring them.”

“Well, I don’t work for him.” I shake the plate again, but David doesn’t take it.

Instead, he walks off down the hallway with his coffee and says, “I’m going to go get dressed.”

My arm is tired. I put the plate down.

Adam would never request that I bring him food, especially not after our fight, in the current climate of our non-relationship. I told him to pretend that I didn’t exist anymore, and Adam always listened to every word I said. He respected every boundary set. If he wants to see me, this morning, it’s for one thing: an apology.

My knuckles rattle his wooden, paint-peeled door. His heavy, good-smelling coat hangs on my elbow. On the walk over, I noticed the label had a red Sharpie line through it. Even with his newfound fame and wealth, he bought it from a second-hand shop.

After a second of waiting, Adam opens the door.

“Morning,” he says, his voice deeper with sleep, eyes dark, hair sweeping high like a wave. His breath catches me off guard. I watch his bare chest rise up and down.

Okay, yes, the shirtlessness of it all also catches me off guard.

The lean muscles of his youth are now stronger. Sturdy. The smooth, tanned skin that would fall over my carefree, creak-free joints and carry me with him into a lustful stupor are now covered with dark curls. Above that wide collarbone I would drape my arms around, his throat constricts.

So, yeah, I’m a human woman with eyes, so I’m glancing at the display, but it’s not my focus. His heavy energy sparks between us. I know what he’s thinking: he’s nervous. Mister attractive musician man walking around half naked in near freezing weather is nervous to see me. Pink ears. Soft eyes. Nostril breathing.

“Hi,” he places.

I edge my boots to the threshold and measure my expression.

I’m not nervous to talk to him. For once, I’ve said everything I needed to say, and I’ve got nothing to apologize for. I’m bringing him the requested pancakes casually, as if I could not care less about our fight last night.

I hold the plate out, silently.

Adam bites his lip. “I wasn’t trying to be an asshole, asking you to bring me breakfast.”

I’m silent.

He ignores that, taking the plate and his coat. “I wanted to talk to you. This was the only way I thought I could get you alone.”

“To murder me?” I ask.

“Sorry?”

“You didn’t get enough hits in last night, wanted me all alone to finish the job?”

He raises a brow. “You poisoned these didn’t you?”

I glance at the pancakes. Now that he’s turned the plate, I see pink in the pile. “No,” I answer. My fingers dig into the food and pull out a pink, butterfly pancake. “But I didn’t make you the fancy ones. I don’t know how this got in there.”

“I don’t eat fancy pancakes anyway. I’m a man.”

“I’ve noticed.” Shit. Why did I say that?

I tear a large bite out of the pancake and call out, “Feel free to tip me for the delivery later,” as I turn around.

Before my feet hit the porch steps, he calls out, “Vienna, wait!”

Through the open screen door, I listen to the sound of ceramic on wood, a scuffle of boots, the door shutting.

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