Until the Sun Falls from the Sky (The Three #1)(51)

He took three sugars?

It really was too bad that vampires didn’t get diabetes and at that moment I didn’t care how unkind that thought was.

I measured three, gargantuan, heaping teaspoons of sugar into Lucien’s coffee, splashed mine with milk, asked Edwina her preference and then passed them around.

I took my mug and went to sit on one of the stools.

“Lucien’s ordered poached eggs on toast, Leah. What would you like?” Edwina asked.

I avoided looking at Lucien and replied, “I’ll have whatever Lucien’s having.”

I felt Lucien turn to me but I continued to ignore him.

Edwina stayed busy at the huge, stainless steel, restaurant quality stove and offered, “It’s no bother. I’ll make whatever you like.”

Finally I turned to Lucien, “What would you like me to eat, darling?”

Lucien’s gaze locked with mine but he didn’t speak. I tried to keep my face attentive and expectant like his decision on my morning meal was the reason for my being.

Finally he enquired, “Do you like poached eggs?”

“Do you want me to like poached eggs?” I returned on a breathy exhale.

“I want you to tell me if you like poached eggs,” he retorted.

We had a short staring contest but his black eyes were too much for me and I turned away.

“I like poached eggs,” I replied demurely.

Lucien looked at Edwina. “She’ll have poached eggs.”

Edwina’s gaze was drifting back and forth between Lucien and me. Then she bit her lip (and I could swear it was to hide a smile) and turned back to the stove.

Lucien took a sip of his coffee. I watched him under my lashes as I took a sip from mine.

“The grocery list is on the counter, dear, right in front of you.” Edwina was saying. “I have Saturday and Sunday afternoons off as well as all day Monday. So anything you want to cook or have in the house, write it down. I’m going to the store after breakfast.”

I was wondering if they sold gallon jugs of gasoline at the grocery store (or flame throwers) when Lucien walked to the sink, poured out his coffee and walked to the coffeemaker.

I just stopped myself from grinning.

Edwina stared at him in horror, a stainless steel spoon any television chef would give one of their kidneys for held aloft. “Is it too weak?”

Lucien poured himself another cup. “It’s fine. But Leah has a heavy hand with the sugar.”

“Oh dear, I didn’t do it right?” I chirped, sounding devastated, like someone ran over the beloved cat that I’d had since childhood.

Lucien turned to me. “Do you remember what your behavior bought you when you disobeyed me?”

Oh I remembered all right.

Boy did I remember.

I clenched my teeth and nodded my head once.

“You could get more of that before breakfast,” Lucien went on. “Would you like that?”

Lucien turning me on to the point my body screamed for release and then leaving me wanting?

No. I didn’t want that.

I shook my head.

He calmly took a sip of his coffee.

Edwina thankfully pretended she hadn’t heard a thing.

I pulled the grocery list to me and started to read it.

All of a sudden I felt Lucien behind me, the heat from his chest against my back as he leaned over me.

I detested a lot of things about him. His recent behavior was one shining example. When he went all nearly breaking the sound barrier vampire was another.

“Tonight, I want you to make your fried chicken for me,” he ordered. My mind cleared of the latest Humiliating Lucien Encounter and I twisted my neck to look up at him, dumbfounded.

“What?”

His eyes caught mine. “Your fried chicken.”

My fried chicken?

I did, of course, make great fried chicken. The best. It was one of my only real talents.

But how the hell would he know that?

A weird chill ran up my spine.

“How do you know about my fried chicken?” I whispered.

His chin motioned to the pad of paper on the table and he didn’t answer my question.

Instead he commanded, “Put the ingredients down.”

“How do you –?”

“Just write down the ingredients, Leah.”

I gaped at him.

Then I considered my recipe, which required at least overnight marinating of the chicken in my famous buttermilk marinade.

It wouldn’t be near as good without time to marinade.

“I can’t,” I told him.

His eyes narrowed.

“No, really, I can’t. It’s the marinade. It needs at least…” I looked at the clock on the microwave, it was nearly ten, “eight hours of marinading!” My voice was rising dramatically but what could I say? I had a fried chicken reputation to keep up. Every woman knew how important that was. “And even that isn’t optimal. Anything less just isn’t worth it. I don’t even have eight hours!”

He grinned, I caught it close up and my heart skipped.

But he was relentless. “Put the ingredients down.”

“Lucien!”

“You can make it for me tomorrow night.”

Oh. Right.

Tomorrow night would give me plenty of time. I could do that.