A burning bacon odor awoke Naomi Johnson. She ran downstairs to the kit-chen. Her jaw fell open—Dave, at the stove? “What are you doing?”
He turned to face her with a boyish grin. “Making breakfast.”
“Thanks, but it smells likes it’s burning.”
“Oops, sorry.” He turned off the bur-ner. “How about we all go out for break-fast?”
“The kids have school.”
“Oh. Then how about you and I go out to breakfast?”
“Who’ll get the kids up?”
“One moment.” Dave ran upstairs. A loud beeping noise came from her sons’ room.
Dave jogged back. “They’re up and can make their own breakfast. There’s plenty of cereal in the house.”
Was she dreaming? It’d been a decade at least since Dave had tried to fix breakfast and well over a year since he’d invited her out. “Okay, we’ll go.”
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