I got up in the morning with only a few hours of sleep under my belt. I stretched, awake as I’d never been awake before. Christopher and Henry had been catalysts, the Prince Charmings who’d wakened me with a swift kick in the ass. The rut I’d been in rivaled the depth of my mother’s grave, but now I was raring to go, ready to start my new, exciting existence.
I fixed a huge breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, handmade biscuits, and hot, strong coffee. Henry walked into the kitchen bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, eager to help and asking questions about everything from the biscuits—”May I try to make one?”—to the chives for the eggs—”May I go out and cut some?”
We settled into a pleasant morning camaraderie as he helped prepare the meal.
“Does your father cook?” I was reluctant to pry, but
