The genuineness of his reaction catches me off guard. It’s as if I’m seeing another level of him, a deeper one, not just the badass operative, but the man who enjoys others thinking of him.
“Tell me what you need.” He slides onto a barstool, and I remain where I am, wanting to keep some distance between us.
“I can order from my phone. After all, I’m paying.”
“Never agreed to that.”
“Stryker—”
“I have a standing order of the things I need. And as you said, there will be leftovers.”
Closing my eyes, I exhale in a deeply controlled way. Why did I think I could win an argument with him?
“Allie? What kind of meat?”
As I list the ingredients I’ll need, he finds them and adds them to his cart. “Anything else? Drinks you like? Coffee?” He tips his head to one side. “Or that chai stuff? Snacks?”
I won’t be in Colorado long enough to bother. “Nothing. Thanks.”
When my heart rate has returned to normal and he’s busy completing the purchase, I glance around his place.
The condo’s details start to sink in deeper now that the immediate danger has passed.
I thought the place was as unremarkable as mine. But it’s not.
While it is utilitarian, it’s also high end but in an understated way. The counters are gleaming, obviously easy to maintain. He has a Bonds coffee maker. I’d have to lift some expensive gems to pay for a machine like that.
His furnishings are clean lines and wood, maybe Scandinavian.
He has a massive painting on the main living-room wall.
There are subtle luxuries that whisper of success.
Much sooner than I expect, a buzzer ricochets through the quiet. I tense, moving my hand toward my Glock out of habit.
Stryker checks a feed on his phone. Nodding to himself, he opens the door and accepts a bag and the tray holding our drinks.
He unpacks everything at the counter, steam rising in fragrant clouds. I swear I smell the scent of sugar and spice.
Instead of us eating from the containers, he transfers everything to plates.
“What can I do to help?”
“Silverware? Salt and pepper?”
How many years has it been since I shared a meal with a man?
Intimacy lowers emotional walls.
And with as considerate and drop-dead gorgeous as Stryker is, I can’t afford a momentary lapse.
We settle at the island. He takes the barstool next to me, leaving space but not a lot of distance.
He’s got a massive steak to go along with eggs and nothing else. No carbs. Which, judging by his hard, lean body, isn’t a surprise.
God. Why am I noticing that?
Determinedly shaking my head, I focus on my own plate. My French toast is dusted with powdered sugar and sliced strawberries. There’s also thick-cut bacon that’s perfectly cooked and curled at the edges. The scrambled eggs are as fluffy as he promised.
