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He was that fucking confident.
Or maybe just that cocky.
Either way, the man knew what he wanted and went after it with everything he had.
“Don’t got a cat,” he muttered, forking the bacon from a cast iron grill that covered two of the burners onto some stacked paper towels to drain.
Her gaze circled the floor, wondering what cat he was talking about.
“Don’t got a cat,” he repeated again. He twisted his head to glance at her over his bare, broad shoulder. The one Stella wanted to sink her teeth into as she was clawing his back.
A flash of him fucking her in the bar while bent over the counter swept through her and her knees almost buckled.
That night she had wanted him to hurt her, to make her feel something. He didn’t, but he did cause damage she was afraid she wouldn’t recover from.
Her wanting him.
Just like she had when they were kids.
While it had been obsessive back then, now it was more out of curiosity. If the sex was that good when it shouldn’t have been, she wondered how good it would be when she was in a different mindset. When they both were.
Note to self: none of that was the reason she was there.
Was it?
Could she have had him just drop off the bills and her checkbook or had one of the guys come pick it up? Just like she could’ve had Dutch deliver Pete’s cut to him over a week ago?
Or was she just looking for an excuse to see him? Be around him?
That thought bothered her.
He was everything she was not looking for in a man. If she was even looking, which she wasn’t.
He turned around and curled his fingers around his hips, shooting her a look of concern. “Want me to kill that cat?”
She shook herself mentally. “What cat are you talking about?”
“The one that’s got your fuckin’ tongue. Never known you to be so fuckin’ quiet.” He walked over to the large table and jerked out a wood chair. “Take a load off. Gonna get you food so you don’t pass out.”
Surprised, she put the back of her hand to her forehead. “Do I look pale?”
“No, your face is red, and your nipples are hard, makin’ me wonder what the fuck you were thinkin’ about when you were so quiet.”
“Just how good that bacon smells,” she lied.
One side of his mouth lifted into a half-grin and the corners of his dark brown eyes wrinkled. “Yeah, that might be it.” He tapped the chair and she approached. As she settled into it, he got close to her ear and murmured, “But I doubt it.”
Her breath caught and he moved away.
“Coffee?”
She scooted the chair back. “I can get it.”
“Sit. Takin’ care of you this mornin’.”
“I don’t need taken care of,” she reminded him.
“Will be plenty of mornin’s where you’ll be takin’ care of me. And I’m not just talkin’ ‘bout breakfast.”
Uh... what? “I’m sorry?”
He went over to what looked like a new coffeemaker in one corner of the black marbled soapstone counter. “Nothin’ to be sorry ‘bout.”
“No, I meant... I think I misheard what you said.”
He returned with a steaming large mug in his hand. He put it in front of her and asked, “You take shit in your coffee?”
“Not shit, but cream and stevia.”
“Stevia? What the fuck’s that?”
“Sugar will be fine.”
He dug around in the fridge and brought out a small carton of whole milk, put it on the table as he passed, then a few seconds later, dropped a spoon and a small generic bag of white sugar off as he headed back to the stove.
“Trip,” Stella murmured as she added a heaping spoonful of sugar and poured the few drops of milk that remained in the bottom of the container. She shook her head. Just like a man to put the milk container back in the fridge empty.
“Stella...”
She lifted her gaze from her mug as he put a plate in front of her. “Hmm?”
“Said my name, then stopped.”
Stella stared at the plate in front of her. Hash browns heavily decorated with ketchup, two fried eggs, also covered in ketchup, and three slices of bacon, thankfully not covered in ketchup.
Her husband had used Tabasco on his eggs, not ketchup. Stella preferred just a little salt and pepper. She never understood the whole condiments on an egg thing.
Trip straddled the chair across from her, then lowered his own plate—a mountain of hash browns, three fried eggs, six slices of bacon and she swore a half bottle’s worth of ketchup—in front of himself, along with a full mug of black coffee.
He forked a good portion of perfectly crispy shredded potatoes into his mouth, some ketchup catching at the corner of his lip.
She swallowed hard as his tongue slid out and swept it away.
She dropped her gaze back to her plate, picked up a slice of crispy bacon and bit into it. Her eyes closed. She hadn’t had good bacon in a long time. She couldn’t afford it. Most mornings she made oatmeal. By buying it in bulk, it was cheap and filling. Occasionally she had toast. But bacon? Too much of a splurge.
