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With those parting words, he disappears down the dark hallway, and a few seconds later, I hear the slam of a door.
Chapter 7: Maybe You Should Try a Man
“What the hell?”
A scream flies from my throat and I whirl around to find Vincent standing right behind me. Bits of scrambled egg fly off the spatula in my hand as I turn, smacking him right in the chest before plopping down on the hardwood floor.
I forget how to speak as I stand here staring right at his chest. His naked, muscular chest, which looks like it was carved from marble. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of grey drawstring sweatpants, which sit dangerously low on his hips. I knew he was built just by looking at the way he fills out his T-shirts, but not this built. That gorgeous chest connects to washboard abs that taper down to . . .
Sweet mother of pearl, he’s got the V.
My eyes stay glued to the indents on either side of his lower abs, something I’ve only read about in romance novels and didn’t think actually existed in real life.
“You must work out a lot,” I whisper in awe.
“My eyes are up here, princess.”
I quickly look up to his face and try not to feel mortified that I ogled him like a piece of meat, hoping I don’t say anything else to embarrass myself.
“Did you know the V on a man’s body is one of the most difficult physical attributes to obtain? A lot of men try to do a ton of crunches to get it, but it takes serious work like planks, lower ab exercises, and vast amounts of cardio.”
Damn it.
Vincent ignores my rambling, and now it’s his turn for his eyes to trail downward. I suddenly realize I’m standing in his kitchen in my pajamas. It’s just a pair of yellow-and-white plaid pajama pants and a T-shirt, but in my haste to wake up first and surprise him with breakfast as a way to say thank you for letting me stay over, I forgot to put on a bra.
“Nice shirt.”
Glancing down at myself, I’m more than a little grateful he keeps his house at a comfortable seventy degrees and I’m not freezing. I realize he’s staring at the words on my shirt and not my boobs and let out a sigh of relief.
“Boys in books do it better,” Vincent reads aloud.
“True story.”
He takes a step towards me and leans forward, placing his hands on either side of the counter, caging me in.
“That’s because they’re boys. Maybe you should try a man.”
My heart is beating so fast inside my chest I’m surprised he can’t hear it in the quietness of his kitchen. His body leans even closer to mine until I’m surrounded by his scent. It’s nothing but clean and soapy, and I’ve never been so turned on by the smell of Irish Spring before.
Just when I think he might do something completely crazy like kiss me, he jerks his head back and stares at me with wide eyes, like he’s completely surprised those words just came out of his mouth.
You and me both, buddy.
He looks away from me and quickly reaches above my shoulder, opens up a cupboard, and grabs a coffee mug. I let out a slow breath when he moves away and over to the coffeemaker, which I started as soon as I woke up, sitting on the corner of his counter.
When my heart rate finally slows to a normal speed, I turn back around and finish scooping the scrambled eggs into a serving bowl, taking them over to the island in the middle of the kitchen, where I’d already set out plates, silverware, orange juice, and toast.
“You didn’t have to do this,” he states, moving over to one of the bar stools and sitting down.
I hop up on the stool next to him, trying to calm the flutters in my stomach as I watch him scoop eggs onto my plate, adding a piece of toast to it before filling up his own.
Get a grip, Belle. Having a guy serve you isn’t romantic. He said it last night. He’s a goddamn gentleman, that’s it.
“I almost didn’t make you breakfast. Your fridge is filled with nothing but eggs, orange juice, expired milk, and fifteen containers of takeout. But it was the least I could do after you rescued me last night.”
He lets out an irritated sigh as he shovels a forkful of eggs into his mouth.
“I didn’t rescue you. I gave you a place to crash. And I don’t cook. I’m at Charming’s a lot. I mostly just eat there or grab something on the way,” he says around a mouthful of food.
I take a minute to look around his kitchen, completely appalled that he doesn’t cook in this thing. It’s a cook’s dream. Brand-new stainless-steel appliances, a double oven, and so many mahogany wood cabinets I lost count after twenty.
