Friday. Bed and Breakfast. Brighton, United Kingdom.
MILES BALANCED THE TRAY of food on his palm. He hadn't been a waiter since he was a teenager, earning extra cash over the summer. He didn't recall it being this hard to keep everything from sliding around.
He managed to open the cottage door and stepped inside.
Diha sat up in bed, blinking at him with a frown curving her mouth.
"It's nine," she said.
"It is. I grabbed the last breakfast. Good morning."
He strode across the cottage and set the bountiful meal down at the small table in front of the sofa. He didn't trust the cups and plates to stay where they should with all the sliding around they'd done, so the bed was out. The small table was covered with Diha's work, so that was out, too. And he didn't feel like standing at the island cart to eat.