Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 128211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
I caught myself looking at the rumpled sheets of the top bunk for a beat too long before I grabbed my radio, strapping it to my belt and heading for the crew mess. I needed sustenance to make it through the day.
“Mornin’,” Cameron greeted me gruffly from where he was already devouring a plate of scrambled eggs.
“Good morning. How are you feeling?”
“Not my best,” he admitted, pointing his fork at the plate of eggs in front of him. “This is helping, though. And Cheffy made baked beans for me. Absolute angel, he is.”
“I could go for a greasy cheeseburger right about now,” I said, then grabbed a plate and started shoveling eggs and breakfast potatoes onto it. “But eggs will do, I guess. I—”
My next thought flew out of my head like a bird from an open cage, eyes catching on a plate of food I didn’t expect to see.
“Aye, I don’t know what Cheffy was thinking with those,” Cameron said around a mouthful of eggs. “Who the hell wants something sweet when they’re hungover?”
I swallowed, heart thumping hard against my chest. “Me, actually.”
I just barely whispered the words, my gaze still fixated on the plate.
Cameron shrugged. “Well, I’d wager you’re the only one in this crew, so eat up. They’re all yours.”
I covered my mouth with one hand as a smile slowly spread on my lips. I felt dizzy with the simple kind of giddy joy that can only come from a reborn memory.
“You’re kidding. Pancakes?”
I bite my lip and nod as Finn shakes his head at me. “What? They’re delicious! Especially banana ones. Those are my favorite.”
“Alright, Jack Johnson.”
I lift his palm to my mouth and playfully bite where his thumb meets his wrist. “You asked! Don’t be a bully about my breakfast choices.”
“Well, as far as day after drinking food preferences go, that may be the worst answer I’ve heard. Eggs, bacon, a Bloody Mary… hell, even cold pizza would be more acceptable.”
“Make fun of me all you want. I don’t need you to make my breakfast, anyway.” I pop up out of his bed, nearly tripping on the sheets we were tangled in before I find a pair of shorts and tug them on. “I can make my own damn pancakes.”
“You better not.”
“Watch me.”
But before I take a step, he wraps me up from behind, his warm arms taking me back toward the bed as I giggle and pretend to try to get away. He hauls me up into the top bunk in a feat of strength and balance unmatched by anyone I know.
“I will make you pancakes,” he growls in my ear, spanking my ass for good measure. “With bananas and whatever other weird shit you want in them.”
“Right now?”
“Right now,” he confirms, and then he turns me in his arms, sweeping my hair from my face as his eyes settle on mine. “And tomorrow. And every day for the rest of your life, if that’s what you want.”
I blinked out of the memory and swayed a bit, reaching my hand out for the edge of the table to steady myself.
“Whoa, there. You alright?”
I nodded, righting myself as I came back to the present, back to the stack of perfectly cooked banana pancakes in front of me. They were even dusted with powdered sugar, and there was a ramekin of raspberry compote to top with instead of syrup.
I instantly recognized it for what it was: not just a plate of pancakes, but an apology.
It was Finn’s way of starting over.
My pulse stuttered with the memory of the night before, all the words he said dancing in a dizzying blur in my mind. For two years, I thought he’d lied to me. I thought he’d played some sick game to get what he wanted from me before leaving me behind.
Now that I knew the truth, I realized it was nobody’s fault.
We were both young. Emotions were high. Time was short. I was stubborn and he was prideful.
But it was what it was — a messy, unfinished story neither of us knew how to end. And those pancakes? They were an invitation to write a new chapter.
Leah and Bernard poured into the mess, both groaning at the sight of the feast Finn had prepared for us. I greeted each of them before plopping two pancakes on my plate and smearing them with the compote. I grabbed a fork next, told my crew to meet me in the main salon after breakfast, and then padded barefoot up to the galley.
I climbed the stairs with the plate balanced carefully in both hands, my stomach a knot of nerves and nostalgia twisting tighter with every step. It was just breakfast, I told myself. But it felt like something more.
Cooking had always been how Finn expressed himself when no words would work, and I was trying my damndest not to read too much into whatever the hell he was trying to tell me with these pancakes.