Connor
Gabe set two thick porcelain mugs down on the white quartz island, the rich, golden crema of the double espressos glistening under the kitchen's recessed spotlights.
He slid one toward me, took his own seat on the high leather stool opposite mine, and leaned his elbows against the counter, looking at me with that calm, perceptive gaze that made you feel like he could see right through whatever front you were putting up.
"Right then, Scouser," Gabe said, taking a quiet sip. "You look like you've been run over by a freight train, dragged through a hedge, and then forced to sign a high-level corporate contract."
"I ran ten kilometers at five-thirty this morning through Cotswolds mud," I grunted, wrapping my hands around the warm mug and letting the steam hit my face. "With Liam, Demyan, and Edward. Then Edward nearly broke his leg—and took my knee out—in the shower, and after that, I was subjected to Eli putting an entire un-sliced strawberry into a bowl of pancake batter."
