“Nope,” he says as he turns back on his heels to flip the eggs. “You’re not ready.”
“Not ready for what?” I demand, a little irritated that I’m turned on by the intensity of his ego.
“The heist.”
I laugh, “The what?”
“Our action, inspiration, writing fall back . . . Our heist.”
“You’re using me to rob something?”
“Not exactly . . . but kind of.”
“I don’t get it,” I say as I drum my fingers on the damaged counter.
Mac produces an ample plate of deliciousness. I didn’t realize just how much I miss breakfast food that isn’t either burnt in my attempt to cook or made primarily of sugar. I swallow the last of my coffee and dig in. The flavor is heaven. I shovel down my entire plate as I listen to Mac.
“I haven’t decided on the main event just yet. But I think we need danger. We need to
