Dream Lake (Friday Harbor #3)(46)

“When the hell else would I come? I’m going to be working on the cottage all day.” The anger rushed through him in stronger and stronger waves, and he was helpless to do anything about it.

“What if I run it out to you after breakfast? I’ll drive out to the cottage, and—”

“I don’t want to be interrupted at work.”

“Justine will be here soon.” Zoë went to pour some coffee into a white porcelain cup. “You … don’t seem well.”

“Bad sleep.” Alex went to the counter and tugged at the roll of paper towels. The roll spun out. He let out a few foul curses as a stream of paper toweling shot from the dispenser.

“It’s all right.” Zoë came to him instantly. “I’ll fix it. Go sit down.”

“I don’t want to sit down.” He took a paper towel and blotted his sweating face, while Zoë deftly rerolled the long white cylinder. Although he tried to keep his mouth shut, words tumbled out, the syllables shredded like they’d been pulled across razor blades. He was jittery and furious, wanting to throw something, kick something. “Is this how you two run a business? Agree to something, and then no follow-through? We’re going to rewrite the payment schedule. My time may not be important to you, but I have to count on things being done when they’re supposed to be done. I’ve got to get to work. My guys are probably already there.”

“I’m sorry.” Zoë set a cup of coffee on the counter beside him. “Your time is important to me. Next time I’ll make certain the check is waiting for you first thing in the morning.”

Alex hated the way she talked to him, as if she were humoring a lunatic or soothing a barking dog. But it worked anyway. He felt the anger drain so abruptly that he was dizzy. And he was so tired that he could barely stay on his feet. Jesus. There was something really wrong with him.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” he managed to say.

“Have this first.” Zoë nudged the cup toward him.

Alex looked down at the coffee. She had put cream in it. He always drank his coffee black. But he found himself reaching for the cup, taking it with both hands. To his stunned mortification, the cup shook violently, liquid sloshing over the edge.

Zoë was staring at him. He wanted to swear at her, turn away, but her gaze held his and wouldn’t let go. Those round blue eyes saw too much, things he had spent a lifetime concealing. She couldn’t help but see how close he was to crumbling. But there was no judgment in her expression. Only kindness. Compassion.

He had a sudden urge to drop to his knees and rest his head against her in exhausted supplication. Somehow he kept standing, swaying on stiff legs.

Carefully Zoë laid her hands over his, so they were both holding the cup. Even though her hands were half the size of his, her grip was surprisingly firm, subduing the shaking. “Here,” she whispered.

The cup lifted to his mouth. Her hands kept his steady. He took a swallow. The liquid was hot and smooth, soothing his sandpaper throat, melting through the chill of his insides. It was slightly sweet, and the touch of cream had softened the bitterness, and it was so unexpectedly good that he found himself desperately gulping the rest. His veins hummed with a gratitude that bordered on worship.

Zoë’s hands eased from his. “More?”

He nodded with a hoarse, wordless murmur.

She made another cup, stirring cream and sugar into it, while sunlight broke through the shuttered window and embossed her hair with bright ribbons. It occurred to him that she was making breakfast for a crowd of paying guests. There were still things cooking on the stove, in the oven. And not only had he interrupted her work, he had stood there and ranted about his own schedule like it was so much more important than hers.

“You’re busy,” he muttered in the prelude to an apology. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Everything’s fine.” Her voice was gentle. She set the cup of coffee at the table, and pulled a chair back. Clearly she intended for him to sit for this one.

He cast a wary glance around the kitchen, wondering what the ghost would make of this, but thankfully he was nowhere to be seen. Alex went to the table and sat. He drank the coffee slowly, able to do it on his own as long as he was careful.

Zoë worked at the counter. The clink of utensils, the sounds of pots and plates being deftly wielded, was oddly relaxing. He could sit here and no one was going to bother him. Closing his eyes, he let himself sink into the feeling of temporary peace. Of sanctuary.

“Another?” he heard her ask.

He nodded.

“First try some of this.” She set a plate of food in front of him. As she leaned closer, he could smell her skin, fresh and sweet, like she had been steeped in sugared tea.

“I don’t think I can—”

“Just try.” She put flatware on the table and went back to the stove.

The fork was as heavy as a lead mallet. Alex looked at the plate. It contained a neat portion of something with layers of bread, the top lightly puffy and golden-brown. “What is it?”

“A breakfast strata.”

As Alex took a cautious bite, he discovered that the whole of it was infused with a mild custardy lightness. It was like a quiche but infinitely more delicate, the texture perfect for delivering the ripe hint of tomato and mild cheese. The flavor of basil came through last, hitting his tongue with a clean, pungent note.