Chapter 9
The next morning, when the toast popped up, I flipped the omelet into a plate and danced my way to the fridge for the orange juice. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in my kitchen this time of the day. I’d been at the Frontier at first light, for the last two years. Never even taken a sick day since we’d opened.
I sang along to the radio and buttered the golden toast, feeling loose and relaxed for the first time in months. I set everything up on a tray, but then stopped to look at it. Something was missing. “Coffee,” I said to myself. I plucked the only two matching cups I owned out of the cupboard and poured the dark and sweet-smelling coffee into each.
There, now everything was perfect.
Hank was upstairs sleeping in my bed, and that idea alone was enough to draw a
