CINDY’S POV
By the time I made it downstairs, the ache in my knees had dulled, only to be replaced by the burn of walking in on the Callahans enjoying breakfast without me.
All spoons halted midair as their sharp eyes pinned me in place, especially Mr. Hen-prick’s.
I almost smiled at the Damian-induced nickname, but his expression upstairs kept replaying in my mind, tightening my chest.
I shoved it away, squared my shoulders, and lifted my chin under their collective glare.
The table was a picture-perfect spread: fluffy scrambled eggs gleaming golden under the light, stacks of pancakes dripping with syrup, sizzling bacon curling at the edges, fresh bread still steaming in a wicker basket.
The smell wrapped around me, warm and rich, making my stomach tighten with hunger.
Monica’s ha
