Page 116 of Gunner

I waited a few moments, expecting him to walk back into the bedroom. Maybe from the bathroom. When he didn’t return, I got up, headed to the bathroom myself and listened.

I could hear Gunner’s mumbled voice and realized he must be on the phone. Finishing up in the bathroom, I grabbed my robe and went downstairs.

When I stepped off the bottom step and looked toward the kitchen, the last thing I expected after the night I’d had was to feel like laughing. But seeing Gunner standing in my kitchen, in a pair of sweats that were at least one size too small, if not more, a white mist of flour covering my floor, his phone to his ear, talking to someone about how to make pancakes.

I threw my head back and laughed.

And damn, did it feel good.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Gunner

Waking up next to Haizley gave me a peace I never in my life thought I would experience. It was something I never wanted to live without again.

Haizley and I needed to have a talk about what I wanted from her. I knew she would balk at first. I was done letting her hide from me. No more fucking running.

Slipping out of bed, I went downstairs to make her breakfast. I knew if I called Kirby to have something delivered this early, she would cut my fucking balls off, and I needed my balls for what I had planned. So, cooking it was. Scrolling through my phone, I looked up a recipe.

How hard could it be?

Hash cooked every day, and he was stoned half the fucking time.

After locating a simple recipe, I dug through her cabinets, looking for what I needed. I wasn’t surprised to find she had it all.

My girl was organized to a fault.

I found the canister of flour, and the top gave me a little resistance, so I gave it a hard tug. Harder than I needed to, because when the top popped off, the flour flew everywhere.

Not moving, I stood and stared, wide-eyed, as it snowed in Haizley’s kitchen. Jesus, if Zero saw this room after the hourshe spent cleaning up last night, I wouldn’t have to worry about Kirby cutting off my balls because I would be dead.

I set to mixing up the ingredients; I would worry about the flour later. I needed to get this done before she woke up.

Pouring the batter into the pan, the mixture flattened out until it was paper thin. This did not look like the pancakes Hash made. The recipe said to wait until the tops of the batter bubbled.

So, I waited.

And waited.

Shit. Where were the fucking bubbles?

Instead, the pan started to smoke, so I said fuck it, and slid the spatula under the paper-thin pancake to flip it over. Only the spatula wouldn’t slide under the pancake.

It wouldn’t even lift the pancake edge off the pan.

What the fuck?

Why wasn’t this working?

More smoke lifted from the pan, and I had to remove it from the flame before it set off the smoke alarm. I did not want Haizley waking up to the sound of a screaming alarm after what she’d gone through last night.

Setting the pan aside, I called Hash.

“Hey, brother, what’s up?”

“How the hell do you make fucking pancakes?”

“Why are you cooking? Are you in my fucking kitchen?”

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