At least I can smell the rich scent of coffee. I pour myself a mug.

“Food’s almost ready,” Raylan says.

“I usually just have coffee,” I tell him.

“Coffee’s a drink. It ain’t breakfast.”

Raylan dishes up two massive plates full of crispy bacon, scrambled eggs, thick-cut french toast slathered in butter and syrup, and some kind of hash made of peppers and potato.

He sets a plate down in front of me, taking the seat opposite for himself.

“There’s no way I could eat all this,” I tell him.

“That’s brain food,” he says, taking a huge bite of french toast.

“That’s two thousand calories. That’s like your whole day on one plate.”

“Not my whole day. Takes a lot more than a plate of breakfast to feed this body, darlin.’ ” He grabs a piece of bacon and takes a big bite out of that, too.

I shake my head at him. “You’re gonna have a heart attack.”

“When have you ever seen a cowboy die of a heart attack?”

“Is that what you are? A cowboy?”

“You bet. Raised on a ranch in Tennessee.”

“What happened to it?”

“Oh, it’s still there.”

“Why’d you leave?”

“I got restless. Wanted to see what else was in the world. Besides . . .” Raylan grins. “I never said I was a good cowboy.”

I have to admit, the bacon on my plate does smell delicious. I pick up a slice and take a bite. It’s crispy and chewy, as fragrant and satisfying as the ribeye steak the night before. If I keep spending time with Raylan, I’m going to become a carnivore.

“See?” Raylan says. “Not bad, huh?”

I try a bite of the hash, too. The potatoes are crisp on the outside, fluffy in the middle. Well-seasoned with salt and pepper, and sweet sautéed red pepper and onion.

“You’re a good cook,” I admit.

“You like to cook?” Raylan asks me.

“No. I hate it, actually.”

“Why?”

“All that work just to make something that’s gone five minutes later.”

I don’t tell him the other reason—I hate doing anything that’s expected of me just because I’m a woman. Cooking, cleaning, childcare . . . I bristle against the idea that I should want to do those things. That I should let them consume me while men spend their hours on more “important” work.

My own mother was never a housewife. But she’s always deferred to my father. He’s the head of the family, and she’s his right hand. I don’t want to be anybody’s hand.

That’s why I’m never getting married. When Nessa married Mikolaj, I told her to take our grandmother’s ring. It was supposed to go to me, as the eldest daughter. But I don’t expect to ever use it.

I know nowadays people think they get married as equals. But when it comes down to it, someone’s career and someone’s goals have to come first. If one of you gets a job offer in New York and the other in LA, how do you pick where to go?