Page 32 of Taking What's Mine

Chapter 15

Lincoln

I wake up feeling like I barely slept, yet my body is oddly alert as every muscle hums with the memory of last night. The warm morning light spills through the blinds, painting soft stripes across the room. I blink a few times, trying to get my bearings. For a moment, I don’t move. My head is crowded with images of Isabel. Her voice, the arch of her back, the way her breath caught in her throat as she gripped my arms. Part of me still can’t believe we let ourselves cross that line. But here we are.

The alarm on my phone buzzes on the nightstand. With a low groan, I sit up, scrubbing a hand over my face. Today is our last full day before Devereaux’s private party. Tomorrow night, everything we’ve worked toward, everything we’re risking, comes to a head. Between the tension of the mission and the charged intimacy Isabel and I shared, my mind feels like it’s balancing on the edge of a knife.

I throw off the covers, half expecting to hear some sign of movement from across the hallway. But the house is silent. Isabel must still be asleep. With a resigned sigh, I decide it’s probably a good time to get dressed and make coffee. She’s going to need caffeine after last night, and especially after how late we ended up pushing ourselves. My chest tightens at the memory of how close we came, how we tested each other’s boundaries and wants. A wave of need courses through me, followed by a pang of guilt. I’m here to keep her safe, not to get swept up in desire.

Still, I can’t deny the warmth that spreads through my chest when I think of the look in her eyes, the low sounds she made that made every nerve in my body light up. I push away those thoughts for now, tugging on a worn gray T-shirt and a pair of jeans. I need to keep my head level. If there’s one thing my military days taught me, it’s that focus is everything.

Stepping into the kitchen, I flip on the light. The small safe-house layout feels strangely cozy this morning, and I can’t help noticing the small details we’ve left scattered around—a coffee mug on the table from yesterday, a pair of her socks by the couch. Signs that we’ve made this place home, if only temporarily. The tension in my shoulders loosens a bit. Maybe home is wherever we can breathe together.

My stomach growls, reminding me we didn’t have much of a real dinner last night—too focused on each other and the swirl of emotions between us. I recall that Isabel loves pancakes, something she mentioned during our “get to know you” sessions. She even teased me about how she’d eat them with Nutella if given a choice. That’s it. I’ll make pancakes. A small gesture that might put a smile on her face and ease the awkwardness that’s bound to set in if we don’t address last night head-on.

Rummaging through the kitchen cupboards, I find some pancake mix—thankfully not expired—and the basics: eggs, milk, a bowl, a whisk. The fridge yields no Nutella, no fresh fruit. I frown at the limited selection, then spot a half-empty bottle of chocolate syrup in the door. That’ll have to do. As I glance at the cupboards again, searching for something else sweet, I stumble across a bag of trail mix. It’s mostly nuts, but I see a few dried cranberries in there, which might add some sweetness. It’s a strange combination, but hey, I’m improvising.

With the stove on, I mix the batter carefully. The smell of flour and eggs wafts through the kitchen, and it’s surprisingly comforting. I haven’t cooked pancakes in a while—usually, it’s protein bars and coffee for me—but the act itself feels grounding. My mind churns with a thousand thoughts: the mission, the toy we tried out, the fact that we’re pretending to be a married couple tomorrow night in front of some very dangerous people. Yet, as I pour the batter into the frying pan, I focus on the hiss and bubble, on the swirl of the wooden spoon, letting the simple, repetitive motions calm me.

The first few pancakes come out golden-brown, though a bit lopsided. I shrug at my handiwork. They’ll taste fine, I hope. I chop up a handful of dried cranberries into tiny pieces and sprinkle them on top, then drizzle chocolate syrup in a spiral. It looks… interesting, to say the least. I try not to think too hard about how weird the combination is. All that matters is the gesture.

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 ofher 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 rinsingplates, 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.

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