Into the Light (The Light, #1)(82)

“You’re hilarious.” My tone wasn’t amused.

“Your egg . . . scrambled, fried?”

“Oh, I don’t care. No matter how you make it, it’ll be better than the breakfast bar I usually eat.”

“What about your parents?” he asked. “I know they live in Chicago. You went to visit them a month or so ago.”

I had. After spending time with the Rosemonts, I’d wanted to hug my mom and dad. “Where are yours?” I asked.

He turned, his face suddenly solemn. “Umm. I’m sorry. I guess I planned on telling you this . . .”

I put my phone down and walked toward him. “What is it? I’m sorry. Is it bad?”

He shook his head as his shoulders moved up and down. “My parents died in a robbery gone bad. Same old adage: wrong place, wrong time. I was a senior in high school and they were on a business trip.” His glistening eyes drew me toward the blue. “That may be why I’m the way I am about you and Highland Heights. I don’t think I could take another . . .” He turned toward the sizzling pan on the stove.

I rubbed his back, not knowing what to say.

After he’d flipped the egg, he turned back and kissed my cheek. “You’re trying to distract me from my cooking, aren’t you? You’re secretly into firemen more than cops and didn’t know how to break it to me.”

I stepped behind him, wrapped my arms around his waist, and put my cheek against his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have just blurted that out. Do you have other family?”

“No siblings, I had grandparents. My mom’s parents stepped in after . . . well, since I was already eighteen, it was more of a formality. They’re both gone now: grandfather by cancer and grandmother, six months later, by a broken heart. See, there’s nothing good in that story. I guess that’s why I haven’t said anything.”

I feigned a smile. “So no rich uncle?”

He spun toward me. “Why would you even say that?”

I shook my head. “It’s nothing. I just . . . in a couple of months it’ll be our first Christmas together”—I shrugged—“unless you get rid of me before then because of my cooking.”

He reached for a plate and plopped a fried egg in the center. “No need for two cooks in the kitchen. I’ve been doing this as long as I remember. Cooking was something I enjoyed doing with my mom, and after . . . it reminded me of her.”

I swallowed my sorrow. “With everything . . . I guess more because of Mindy . . . I want to spend time with my parents at Christmas. I was wondering if you’d be willing to come with me to Chicago.”

He walked our plates to the breakfast bar. “I usually work the holidays. That way the people who actually have families can have the time off. Besides, I look forward to that check: it’s overtime—time and a half plus holiday pay.”

“You’ve been with DPD long enough, you can get the time off, can’t you? Please see if you can get it off. My folks will love you. My mom talks way too much, especially after a few glasses of wine, and my dad is great, a little quiet until you get to know him. We just can’t tell him you’re a Tigers fan. He’s really into baseball, and the Cubs have always been his team.” I tried lightening the mood. “However, I’m warning you right now, watch out for my little sister. She’s recently gone through a divorce.” I tightened my smile and moved my shoulders. “And I’ll be honest: I don’t think there’s a male who’s safe within fifty feet of her, but don’t worry, I promise to run interference.”

Dylan winked as he took a bite of his toast. “Wait, before you run interference, let me know, can she cook?”

“Yep, I taught her everything she knows.”

“Hmm, so her ex was the one who filed, right?”

I shook my head. It was good to see his smile. My phone buzzed and I swiped the screen. Exhaling, I said, “That’s number two from His Majesty, Bernard.”

“Even a royal summons can’t keep you from your breakfast.”

Carefully I stacked the egg and bacon on one half of the toast and put the other half on top. “Look. I’ve got this! I’m an eat-on-the-run expert.” Kissing his cheek, I said, “Please think about asking for the time off.”

He slipped his fingers in the belt loops of my slacks and pulled me close. “Promise me, no Highland Heights.”

All I could see was blue, the same eyes that only minutes ago had been sad. “I’ll do my best.”

“Don’t forget,” he said with another sexy wink, “I have my spatula, and I’m willing to use it.”

“Maybe you could use one from my kitchen. It’s less likely to be in the dishwasher.”

He grinned as I picked up my egg-and-bacon sandwich and grabbed a napkin. On my way to WCJB, I planned to call Bernard. However, sitting in my car, instead of thinking about my boss, my thoughts went to Dylan. Maybe it was time to take the next step. I was ready to let Fred visit.

As I drove I decided that Foster obviously had the wrong Dylan Richards. The one I’d just left had no rich uncle, had no family to speak of, and was willing to work Christmas for the extra money. It didn’t take an investigative journalist to know he couldn’t afford a $1.4 million home in a rich neighborhood.