Malia
Sunday mornings in this house were always quiet, but this one felt almost too calm. No clinking of pans from the kitchen staff, no chatter from my mom drifting down the hall. They’d gone out for their buffet with Mr. Sinclair, and since the cook didn’t come in on Sundays, it was me rattling around the house like I was pretending to be independent.
I padded into the kitchen still in my pajamas, hair shoved into a messy knot, determined to make something as simple as toast and eggs. I wasn’t exactly starving, but the act of cooking felt like a distraction, something to do with my hands and my mind so I wouldn’t keep circling back to last night, to the way Maverick had looked at me when he dropped me off.
I cracked the first egg a little too hard against the bowl, muttering under my
