I tear into the eggs like I haven’t eaten in days, gobbling half of them down before Chet has cracked his own into a bowl. The omelet is delicious, light and fluffy and perfectly salted, without even the tiniest touch of browning. And just like I knew it would be, it’s heavy on the cheese.

“You know, this chef thing isn’t such a bad idea,” I say, working off another bite with the side of my fork. Hot goo gushes out of the center, an avalanche of cheese and tomato and translucent onion. “Where’d you learn to cook like this?”

Chet shrugs. “TV. YouTube. It’s not that hard.”

The toaster pops, shooting up two slices of bread, and he cuts them into perfect triangles while rattling off his repertoire. Eggs and hash browns wrapped in bacon, anything that can be fried in a pan or grilled, fat cheese dogs smothered in chili. Behind him, onions sizzle in the pan.

I am digging out some organic jam from the top refrigerator shelf when the mudroom door opens, and Micah’s voice calls out, “Hey, Charlotte.”

“In the kitchen.”

A few seconds later he appears in the doorway in his socks, a thermos dangling from a finger. “Why does it smell so good in here? Hey, Chet. How’s it hanging?”

Chet eyes him from across the island. “Sheriff.”

Micah gives him a good-natured smile. “Better not let Chief Hunt hear you say that. He likes being the only sheriff in town. And you know neither of us are sheriffs, right? I’m not even officially a cop.”

Chet knows all this, of course, but he also knows that Micah’s father is scary as hell, and that at the first sign of trouble, he and his deputies will roll through the trailer parks on the other side of the mountain and whoop their sirens at anybody who happens to be sitting outside. He knows they’ll search the trunk of an old hooptie but let a BMW fly by without so much as a warning. He’s grown up fearing men like Chief Hunt with their guns and billy clubs and handcuffs chinking from their uniform belts. Micah may not be a cop, but he’s still connected to law enforcement, and not only because he’s the police chief’s son. He worked in search and rescue for years until founding his underwater criminal investigations training and consulting company, Lake Hunters.

Chet turns back to the stove with a shrug. “If you say so.”

Micah lets it go, lifting the thermos into the air. “Can I bother you for a refill?”

“Of course.” I motion him over, abandoning the rest of my breakfast. “You look like you’ve warmed up some.”