Still Breathing [Jacob Black]

Chapter Six

Felicity

Paul tried to talk to me during the ride home, but I cut him a look every time that caused him to quiet. I couldn't handle a conversation right now. I needed to breathe and relax and think first, or else I would say things I didn't mean.

Paul didn't deserve my anger. All he'd done was try to take me to a friend's house for dinner because he'd noticed I was getting worn out. He didn't know the situation would go down the drain thanks to Bella Swan's ignorance. Nor did he know that I'd be set so off kilter by his friend—by Jacob.

When we got home, I went straight to my room. I kicked off my shoes, shrugged off my coat, and crawled under the covers, needing to clear my head. Otherwise my mind would keep spinning and nothing made sense. So I closed my eyes and paced my breathing.

Behind my eyelids, I saw Jacob Black's face. His warm, dark eyes.

And it was that sight that soothed me to sleep.

***

The next morning, I woke up and everything was peaceful for about a second.

Then the night before crashed into me and I nearly groaned in mortification. Had I really overreacted so terribly? Yes, yes I did. Why in the world would I let Bella Swan's careless words get to me? Especially when Paul could so clearly stand up for himself? I should have kept my mouth shut. I'd made a fool of myself and Paul in front of his friends.

Sighing, I rolled out of bed. I'd make it up to him. First step—breakfast. Paul was a sucker for everything edible...and even a few things that weren't.

Padding to the kitchen, I was alarmed by the sounds coming from my destination. It sounded like someone was trying to actually cook in there. Finally making it to the doorway I saw that there was, in fact, someone attempting to cook in the kitchen.

I stood there in shock as Paul used a spatula to flip an already burnt pancake—which landed on the stove next to the skillet instead of in it. He cursed and I couldn't help but giggle.

Paul spun around, lifting his spatula in defense. It only served to make me laugh some more. "What are you doing?" I asked between snickers.

He did his best to hold a stern expression, but his lips were twitching in response to my laughter. "Cooking you breakfast like the amazing friend I am, obviously."

"Doesn't seem to be going too well."

"It's the thought that counts," he said, turning back to the stove. "Pancakes aren't my specialty. But I know you like them. I even included chocolate chips."

My eyes widened. "You did?" I rushed over to peek at the batter in the bowl on the counter. Yes, those were chocolate chips in there. "Move," I said, bumping him aside with my hip and swiping the spatula.

"Hey!" he whined. "I'm making those for you."

I shook my head. "No way am I letting you ruin perfectly good chocolate chip pancakes. You can pour orange juice or something."

He frowned. "I could cook bacon?"

"Good," I said, focusing on the pancakes I was making—his sad attempt discarded on a plate.

Paul took the plate with the wasted pancake and moved toward the trash. He stopped next to it, looking between the plate and the garbage can, his face set in thought. Then he lifted the pancake and shoved the entire thing into his mouth.