Breakfast At The Door

The knock came hard enough to rattle the thin wall by the stove.

Linda froze with her phone in one hand and the cup in the other. Emily stood so fast her chair scraped.

Another knock. Then a voice from the hall. “Miss Bennett? Delivery.”

Emily frowned. Linda was already at the peephole. Her shoulders eased by half.

She opened the door.

Vincent DeLuca stood there with a cardboard carrier and a brown paper bag, as if he belonged in this hallway. He wore a dark coat, no tie, and a face that gave away nothing.

Emily’s hand tightened on the chair back.

He looked at her once, then at Linda. “I brought coffee. And breakfast.”

Linda blinked. “You’re him.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Emily stepped in front of her mother. “What are you doing here?”

Vincent’s gaze stayed on her. “I wanted to apologize.”

“For kissing me?”

“For not warning you first.”

That got Linda’s attention. She looked from one to the other like she was watching a bad play and deciding whether to throw something.

Vincent lowered his voice. “I didn’t do it out of pity.”

Emily’s throat worked. “Then why?”

He held the paper bag a little higher. “Can I come in?”

Before she could answer, her phone buzzed on the table. Then again. And again. A new message lit the screen from an unknown number.

Stay away from Bellini’s if you know what’s good for you.

Emily stared at it.

Vincent’s jaw went still. “What happened?”

Linda crossed herself without meaning to. Emily didn’t take her eyes off the screen.

“Apparently,” she said, “we’re past breakfast.”