BROKEN HOPE (Broken Redemption Book 2)

Chapter 11

Emilia

By the time I make it downstairs, the girls have already left. Given I've never missed seeing them off to school before, my eyes well up with tears. If Lucas notices, he doesn't mention it. Instead, he scurries about the kitchen, putting my breakfast together with practiced ease.

It looks like he's changed his clothes. The dark-wash jeans and black form-fitting t-shirt he's wearing mold perfectly to his chiseled frame. Looking at him now, it's hard to believe the hulk of a man standing before me is the same lanky 17-year-old boy I used to know. Though he's always commanded whatever space he's in, the adult version of him is far more assured, and his presence in my kitchen is almost larger than life.

When he catches the way I'm staring, he shoots me a knowing grin. "Alright, come on. Have a seat."

Embarrassed, I avert my eyes, hoping he doesn't spot the warm flush creeping up my cheeks. When he sets the plate in front of me, I'm surprised by what I see.

"You made all this?" While I didn't think I was hungry, the combined sight and smell of the homemade breakfast burrito—complete with eggs, cheese, bacon, and veggies—makes my stomach growl.

"Aaah, yeah," he says this as though I've offended him. "I'll have you know I'm an excellent cook, Ms. Embree." The mischievous smile on his face makes my stomach flutter. "Now eat up. Then we'll figure out what comes next."

Picking up my fork, I ask, "Did you eat already?"

"Yep, with the girls." Moving to the kitchen sink, he starts working on the dirty dishes. "Got up early and figured I'd go all out to impress you fine ladies with my cooking skills."

"I'm sorry about this morning. For not helping with the girls..."

"Not trying to be rude, but I'm stopping you right there. There's no need to apologize. You needed the time, and the girls and I were happy to give it to you." He says this matter-of-factly, as he looks on from where he's loading the dishes into the dishwasher. There's so much wrong with this picture, and yet, it's like he and I have been doing this all our lives. Sharing not only domestic responsibilities but also time with the girls.

"Still, I want you to know I appreciate all you've done for us."

"Anytime. It's my pleasure." Closing the dishwasher, he dries his hands on a dishtowel, then leans back against the counter facing me.

Filling in the awkward silence, I tell him, "If you need to work today, you can use my office."

"Nope, I'm good. Things on that front are quiet for the moment, and Ben knows where to find me if he needs me. How about you? What's on your list for today?"

It's entirely my fault that he's asking this. Between my breakdown this morning and the depressive state that's overwhelmed me the past four days, he's taking it upon himself to coax me out by pushing me to look forward instead of dwelling on the past.

No longer hungry, I set the fork down. As my mind struggles to sort through what needs to get done, I'm crushed by the weight of what I have to do. I have to tell them. All of them. My mom and Harold. Our friends. And oh god...the girls! What do I say? How in the world do I explain?

Just thinking about it sends me into a panic. My heart pounds in my chest, which makes it hard to breathe. With the world suddenly teetering around me, I reach for the edge of the kitchen island just as my vision begins to blur.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Embree!" In an instant, he's at my side, holding me up and drawing me close. "Christ, I got you. I got you." Like the anchor he's always been, he steadies me. "Are you okay? Please tell me you're okay." Pulling back, he cups the side of my face as his eyes scan for visual confirmation.