Chapter 8: The Shopping List

The main kitchen was bigger than my entire trailer, all brushed steel and gray soapstone countertops.

I found a heavy cast-iron skillet in the lower cabinets, set it over the commercial range, and got to work. Cooking for an athlete wasn't rocket science—it. It was fuel. Thick-cut bacon sizzled in the fat, red potatoes crisped in the corners of the pan, and six eggs scrambled soft with chives and sharp cheddar. By six-twenty, the kitchen smelled like a real diner.

Footsteps sounded on the back stairs—heavy, unhurried, but solid.

I kept my eyes on the toast, buttering each slice with quick, practiced strokes.

Vaughn walked into the kitchen wearing a clean gray t-shirt and dark sweatpants. His dark hair was still damp from the shower, his jaw shadowed with morning stubble. It was hard to reconcile this man with the one who'd been shaking in the dirt twenty minutes ago. In a quiet room, there was no hiding how massive he actually was.

I pushed the thought aside and pointed a spatula toward the breakfast bar. "Sit. It's hot."

He didn't move toward the stools. He stood five feet off, his left arm hanging casually by his side—fingers slightly curved, motionless, but visibly relaxed compared to twenty minutes ago. His gray eyes swept the counter, then landed on me.

"I don't remember ordering a country buffet, Thorne."

"Daphne’s briefing sheet said four thousand calories a day, high protein, complex carbs," I replied, sliding the loaded plate onto the island alongside a glass of fresh orange juice. "You burned half of that swinging at a broken machine. Eat."

Vaughn stared at the plate like it might detonate.

He crossed the floor, took a stool, and picked up the fork with his right hand. He didn't say thank you. He just started eating, moving with the efficient, aggressive hunger of someone whose body demanded fuel whether his pride wanted it or not.

I turned around to wipe down the prep counter, running a soapy rag over the stainless steel.

When I turned back three minutes later, the plate was completely clean. Not a scrap of potato, not a crumb of toast.

"Well?" I asked, leaning a hip against the sink.

Vaughn set the fork down with a quiet clink, his expression utterly blank. "I gave it to Storm."

I looked down.

Storm was sitting three inches from his left knee, his pale eyes fixed on Vaughn’s empty plate with tragic, unrewarded longing. His muzzle was bone dry. Not a fleck of egg, not a grease stain on his whiskers.

"Storm looks like he's about to report you to animal services for emotional neglect," I said.

A brief, microscopic twitch pulled at the corner of Vaughn’s mouth before he flattened it into a scowl. "Dog likes bacon. Sue me."

"Next time I'll make twelve eggs," I said, picking up the plate and dropping it into the sink. "Since your imaginary dog has an appetite."

"Don't flatter yourself," he muttered, shifting on the stool.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of heavy cream paper, laying it on the stone counter between us.

"What's this?" I asked, drying my hands on a dish towel.

"Your daily assignment," Vaughn said, tapping a blunt finger against the fold. "Since you're so confident you can handle Belmont."

I picked up the paper and unfolded it.

It wasn't a standard grocery run. It was a calculated scavenger hunt designed by someone with too much money and an axe to grind. Twenty specialty items, each pinned to an obscure corner of the county.

I scanned the locations. South Port was twenty miles south. Downtown was a gridlocked nightmare by noon with harbor ferry traffic. North Ridge was fifteen miles in the opposite direction, winding straight into the hills.

"This is eighty miles of driving across three different zip codes," I said, looking up from the paper.

"Very observant," he said dryly.

"Half these items are available at the organic grocer two miles from the front gate."

"I don't eat grocery-store meat, and supermarket coffee tastes like battery acid," Vaughn countered, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest. "You claimed you wanted six thousand dollars a month to work. That list is the work."

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the edge of the island, his voice dropping into a quiet, deliberate challenge.

"Five o'clock sharp," he said. "Every single item on that counter, verified and stocked, before dinner prep starts. If you're missing one item, or if you roll back through the gate at five-oh-one, you pack your canvas duffel, call Daphne, and catch the evening bus back to your trailer."

There it was.

He couldn't fire me for seeing his hand—Daphne would demand an explanation, and any formal inquiry risked exposing his condition to the Tritons' front office. So he was engineering a legitimate performance failure. An impossible errand run to break my contract before sundown.

"And if I have everything on this counter by four-thirty?" I asked.

Vaughn’s eyes narrowed slightly, surprised that I hadn't pushed the paper back across the island.

"Then you keep your job," he said. "For another twenty-four hours."

"Deal," I said, folding the paper into a neat square. "Except for one minor detail."

He raised an eyebrow. "What detail?"

"I have four dollars and eighty cents in my checking account, Mr. Mercer," I said, holding his gaze. "Unless you expect me to steal organic flank steak at knife point, you're going to have to fund your little sabotage."

Vaughn didn't flinch. A slow, dark smirk touched the corner of his mouth as his hand reached back into the pocket of his sweatpants.