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I’ve known Jem for years. Yes, she’s beautiful and desirable, but I’ve never looked at her as something other than a resident of town, just like anyone else.
This morning, my notice of her changed. Now, not only do I see the attractive woman, but she’s a woman who’s in my orbit. From the way her brown hair was spread out across the pillow, to her soft breaths when she pretended to be asleep, even the smell of her skin in my nose after a night of the deepest sleep of my adult life means I’m viscerally aware of her on a different level now.
It took every ounce of my willpower to stop myself from tugging her toward me this morning and kissing her. To satisfy my newfound desire to find out what she tastes like.
Attraction to the town mistress of coffee is one thing. Waking up in bed next to her and knowing that we’re going to be spending a lot of time together until I can take her back to town is another thing.
I’m hanging on by the skin of my teeth while I fry eggs, bacon, and toast bread for breakfast for us. My thigh has entered the itchy painful stage where all I want to do is dig into scratching the skin around the stitches, but I know that it’ll hurt like a bitch if I do. After breakfast, I’ll get some of the antibiotic ointment on it and it’ll help…hopefully.
“How do you want your eggs?” I call to the living room where I banished Jem. Having her in the kitchen while I try to focus on cooking was more than I could handle so I kicked her out, which was very “growly” of me.
But what else was I supposed to do with her standing there all rumpled from sleep and bleary-eyed, looking like a tasty fucking treat in my kitchen?
“However is fine,” she calls back, her voice sounding farther away. But the tone of her voice in the morning is huskier than I’ve ever heard it.
I pop a lid on the bacon to stop flying splatters of grease and am reaching for my coffee when I remember that she didn’t grab any before leaving, and I want to kick myself in the ass.
If my mama could see me right now, I’d be getting an earful. Grumping at a guest before breakfast, not offering coffee, and making her all around uncomfortable.
A pang takes up residence in my chest when I think of Mom. She’s been gone years now, but the ache still stings when I think about her.
Eyeing the phone on the counter next to me, I’m grateful for the lack of service. Lord knows what I’d do if I had access to text my family.
Probably get an earful for not talking to them for the last however long it’s been since I participated in any of the chats.
I yank another mug from the cabinet and fill it with coffee before asking, “You want cream or sugar in your coffee?”
Jem comes to stand in the entryway to the kitchen. Seeing her in the morning light wearing my shirt and sweats does something to me. Something I don’t know how to define, or explain, but something, nonetheless.
“Just black for me.”
I reach out and hand her the drink, handle first. “Just black coffee? For all the fancy coffees you’ve put on the menu at Ally’s, you don’t drink any of them?”
“No, I will occasionally. But I prefer just plain black coffee. Can’t beat the original, you know? Plus it’s faster to get my caffeine when I know that the second we open the doors in the morning we’re going to be slammed.” She blows air over the surface of the inky liquid before taking a sip, and I have to look away from her pursed lips. And the way her throat works the liquid down.
Jesus Christ, Boone. Get your shit together.
I rip the lid off the bacon and flip the slices before dropping four pieces of bread into the toaster. A pan for the eggs and a couple of cracked shells puts me closer to having something to stuff into my mouth so I don’t say anything stupid.
Jem turns and heads back into the living room, and I feel like I can finally breathe a little more.
What the hell is in the water that is making this—whatever this is—put me in a choke hold? It’s not like I’ve never spent time with her. She’s gone to the same events that I have, the two of us being on the periphery of the Sawyer siblings’ lives. We’ve spent time together enough that if I had the hots for the woman, I should have known about it before now.
But here I am, standing in my kitchen, cooking breakfast for the brunette bombshell, lusting after her and trying not to.
I plate the food and set it at the breakfast bar with silverware. Instead of just calling for Jem like a beast, I start toward the living room, hoping to be less growly by her standards.
When I cross the threshold, I see that she isn’t there, and after looking down the hall and seeing the bedroom door is closed, I assume she’s getting changed back into her clothes. Pressure in my bladder reminds me that I hightailed it into the kitchen this morning after waking up without going pee or making sure my hair isn’t standing up straight.
Might as well take care of that now before we eat.
A quick twist of the knob under my fingers and I realize I made a grievous error. Jem’s not in the bedroom getting dressed. She’s in the bathroom, tits out in all their creamy splendor, and I’m staring at rose-colored nipples peaked in the cold air. The red lace of her bra clasped in her hands doesn’t give her an inch of coverage when she leaps backward.
“Shit. Fuck. I’m sorry.” I yank the door shut at the sound of her surprised squawk.
“Have you ever heard of knocking?” she calls out, angry from the other side of the door.
Who’s growly now?
