Page 63 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
“No luck, huh?”
“No.” She looks at me, her brows descending in a pout. “The chef said she was making more.”
Oh. She usually has a pot of coffee brewing anytime she’s at the house. She probably relies on the kick of caffeine to get her engine started. It’s making alotof sense right now.
Plucking the mug from her hands, I pick up the handle to the urn. “I’m going to go check on that. Hold on, Monroe.”
She gives me a not-too-grateful glare, which makes me chuckle. She’s a little surly this morning and I can’t say that I dislike it.
I stride into the kitchen, where I find the chef frying bacon and cooking eggs. She spots the urn in my hands and shoots me an apologetic smile.
“Sorry. I have my hands full. If you could just wait, I can refill the coffee in a few minutes.”
“Don’t worry about it.” I walk over to the industrial-size coffee machine. It’s a familiar model, one that I remember from my days bussing tables at a steakhouse. “I’ve done this a million times before.”
I pull out the basket, dump the coffee grounds, and replace the damp filter with a fresh one from a stack on top of the machine. The chef is watching, so I ask her for directions how much coffee I should pour in. Then I hit brew.
A minute later, the coffee maker is pumping out dark, fragrant liquid. I let it brew straight into the cup in my hands before setting up the urn with its lid open. Lifting the cup at the chef, I head back to Juliet.
She’s standing in the dining room, looking mournful.
I corral her, hand her the fresh-brewed cup, and watch her eyes light up.
“You got coffee!” she says, voice sounding breathy. As if I’d conjured a miracle.
“I did.”
I point to the several cream and sugar options and she falls all over herself to add plenty of oat milk and raw sugar to her coffee. Then she stirs it and takes a sip.
“Mmm. It’s actually good.”
“Anything for you,honey.”
Juliet gives me side-eye as she has another sip. “Thanks,baby.”
I like the teasing we’ve got going on. Wandering over to her, I slip an arm around her waist before I can overthink it. She doesn’t pull away.
“Hm. Maybe the Chainsaw has a gentle setting after all.” Her voice is soft, just like her skin under my hands.
“You are a Firecracker, aren’t you?”
She rolls her eyes, but the smile stays. Until the chef announces that breakfast is served, she allows me to hold her for a few minutes. She sets up plates of eggs, scrambled tofu, bacon, hash browns, and fruit salad. I finally get a cup of coffee, a pile of eggs, and fruit.
No one is sitting at the dining room table. Everyone lounges in their own space, if they’re here at all. Silas, Grayson, and Ivy haven’t appeared at all yet.
I head out to the deck overlooking the rugged shore leading into the Salish Sea. Juliet is sitting outside on a deck chair and I grab the seat beside hers. For a minute we just eat and sip coffee; I put my eggs away in a very short amount of time and then look at Juliet.
“You switched lipsticks,” I observe.
“So?” She brings a paper napkin to her lips. “I can wear different lipsticks. I change them all the time.”
She’s always a tiger on the attack. I smirk.
“Just surprised. I liked the one you had on in bed.”
Her eyes sparkle, and she flicks her hair out of her face.
“I think you like whatever color my lips are, no matter what. You’re basically captivated by them.” She pauses, tilting her head. “Are you obsessed with me, Huxley?”
