I did this at the same time I started the toast. I was multitasking, on a mission, why this was so important to me; I wasn’t going to go there. It just was.
While I was cooking, Mom and Dad were taking turns in the hallway bathroom, Mom making the pull out, Dad pushing it back in, Mom returning the cushions.
I wasn’t wrong, Colt didn’t primp. Mom and Dad weren’t even dressed when he came out, jeans, belt, boots, shirt, hair wet, badge on belt, blazer and shoulder holster in his hand. He threw them on the dining table and hit the kitchen as I was sliding the frittata under the broiler to finish it off.
I wondered how this would play out, me and Colt after our colossal shift having breakfast with Mom and Dad in attendance.
Colt didn’t touch me as he went straight to the coffee and I tried not to be disappointed. Instead, I pulled out plates.
“Feb’s giving us an impromptu Frittata Morning,” Mom announced, hitting the kitchen and the coffeepot too, wearing her Mom nightgown that was cotton and had cap sleeves, little flowers embroidered around the neck. It hit her at her knees and made her look like the Mom she was.
“Yeah?” Colt answered and the far away way he said this made my eyes move from the cutlery drawer to him.
He was leaning against the kitchen counter, one fist wrapped around the handle of a coffee mug, this held up and forgotten. His other hand was out, his fingers poking at my jewelry. Something about him doing this, and the way he was, his neck twisted and bent, his eyes on my jewelry, his mind definitely elsewhere, made me stop and watch.
He pulled my choker free, carefully straightening it so it was flat on the counter top. He picked out my earrings, placing them together by the choker. Next came the rings, which he set in a row. He did this with what seemed like a strange reverence, fascinated by the process, his touch light on my jewelry and I felt it on each piece, as if his fingers were at my knuckles, my ears, my throat. It felt nice.
“Coffee, Jackie, I’m flaggin’,” Dad said as he slid his boxer-clad ass onto one of Colt’s stools.
I pulled myself together and dumped the cutlery by the plates, turning to grab the mountain of buttered toast I’d made and then turning back to place it up on the bar by Dad.
Mom gave Dad his coffee and I pulled the frittata out of the oven then switched it off then grabbed a plate and a spatula to start serving.
“You ever have Feb’s frittata, son?” I heard Dad ask Colt and I didn’t look to see if he was still engrossed in my jewelry.
“Nope,” Colt answered and his voice was no longer far away.
“In for a treat,” Dad muttered and I slid Colt’s piece on a plate, twisted and handed it to him.
“It’s just essentially scrambled eggs,” I said to Dad, not looking at Colt but feeling him take the plate.
“Yeah, scrambled eggs injected with a slice of f**kin’ heaven,” Dad replied.
I went back to serving up frittata and decided to change the subject.
“Dad, can you go by my place after the frittata and pick up my yoga mat?” I asked, still serving and handing Mom a plate which she moved to set in front of Dad.
“Sure thing, darlin’, after my mornin’ constitutional.”
I handed Mom her plate, grabbed my coffee and turned to Dad.
“After frittata, your constitutional, you goin’ over to my pick it up and coming back, me doing yoga and then getting a shower, I’ll be late to open.”
“Don’t miss my constitutional, February,” Dad said and this was true.
“You can have it when you get back,” I told him and this was true too though I doubted he’d go for it as nothing messed with his morning schedule. Not even a daughter who seriously needed the relaxation of yoga.
“Feb –”
“I’ll get it,” Colt said and my eyes went to him, most of his frittata was gone, he had a forkful arrested halfway to his mouth and was looking at Dad. “There may be crime scene tape on the door and it’s best I go in for it.”
I forgot about that.
“Don’t you have work?” I asked.
“Won’t take fifteen minutes,” Colt answered. “I’ll get it, bring it back and then get to work.”
I couldn’t argue with that and didn’t want to. It was nice of him and I was beginning to like the nice things he did for me. I’d been taking care of myself for awhile, keeping myself to myself, I hadn’t had that in a long time.
“Thanks,” I said quietly and looked away.
“Jesus, darlin’, you outdone yourself with this one,” Dad proclaimed, mouth full.
“It’s scrambled eggs, Dad.”
“It’s f**kin’ beautiful, Feb.”
“Whatever,” I whispered, feeling embarrassed. This was, of course, the effect I was going for, for whatever reason, but getting it made me uncomfortable.
“Why aren’t you havin’ any?” Colt asked and my eyes went to him and then skittered over his shoulder.
“I don’t eat before yoga,” I informed him.
“Missin’ out, baby,” he said softly and my eyes skittered right back and I felt a warm heaviness hit me in three different places in my torso and I wondered if my camisole was holding up or if everyone could see my ni**les had gotten hard.
They ate in silence and then Colt moved to take his plate to the sink. He turned, reaching around me to grab a slice of toast off the stack. He was behind me and I felt his hand hit the small of my back.
“Walk me to the door, Feb,” he said in my ear.
I followed him to the dining table where he stopped, the toast in his teeth, to shrug on his holster and blazer then I followed him to the door.
He took a bite of the toast and as he chewed his other hand came to the top of my neck, under my jaw, his thumb jutting out to press under my chin and lift my face.
“Great mornin’, baby,” he whispered and that heady heaviness in my br**sts and between my legs got headier. “Which means me askin’ this is gonna suck.”
“Oh shit,” I said.
“Sully says Nowakowski wants you to make another list. The fifteen years you been away.”
I pulled in breath through my nostrils then I let it go and nodded which wasn’t easy with his thumb at my chin.
“They’ll need to know where to find ‘em so if you know, even last known whereabouts, you add that to the list.”
I nodded again.
He took in a breath before he said, “It’ll help them to know what they did. They might be able to lock down a victimology, try to guess who’s next. You’ll need to record that too and try and be thorough.”