“How the hell do you drink this stuff? It’s disgusting.”
The rough edge in his voice caught her attention despite herself, and she glanced over in time to see him grimace and dump the contents of the mug into the sink.
She shrugged while brushing invisible crumbs into her waiting hand. “Well, it’s been sitting there since the middle of the night.”
She focused on wiping the same spot on thetable, but her gaze kept drifting back to him, tracking his movements before she could stop herself. He didn’t say anything, didn’t even look her way, but something told her he knew every move she made.
He cleaned out the pot, then reset the coffeemaker with fresh grinds. As it brewed, he rifled through the refrigerator and pantry, taking out what he needed, apparently making himself bacon, eggs, and toast. She didn’t think this was the time to point out that he was eating her groceries.
The way he found a skillet and utensils without searching only confirmed what he’d told her—he was comfortable there. Familiar with every part of the house.
Which meant he probably wasn’t planning to leave anytime soon.
Her grip tightened on the cloth as she debated whether to wait until he finished cooking or take the plunge and tell him to go.
With his back to her, as he placed several slices of bacon into a skillet on the stove, KC put her dilemma on hold. “Are you hungry?”
The question surprised her. “Uh, no, thanks. I ate earlier.”
He grunted in response and kept his eyes on what he was doing. “So, do you have a name?”
She hesitated, making sure she stuck with the name she’d been using for the past few weeks. She’d change it again once she left Whisper, but for now, it was the one his uncle knew. “Maura Jennings.”
After moving the sizzling bacon to a paper towel-covered plate and adding four eggs to the skillet, he popped two pieces of bread into the nearby toaster. “Well, Maura Jennings, why don’t you tell me about yourself, hmm?”
She stared at him, wary of his questions. “Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t know... like... how come you’re renting my uncle’s place, and why you threatened to shoot me with a 9mm last night?”
He still didn’t turn around, and Moriah stared at his muscular back, trying to think of an answer he would accept. “A single woman can never be too careful. The gun is for protection. You never know when some lunatic will break in at two o’clock in the morning.”
He caught the intended sarcasm in her last sentence, glancing over his shoulder at her with a snort before turning back to his breakfast. “I said it last night, and I’ll say it again. Ididn’tbreak in. Ihave a key. And last time I had a psych exam, they determined I wasn’t a lunatic... or so they told me.”
What? Is he kidding? Why is he having psych exams? Maybe I should have called the police.
After removing the paper towel, he slid the sunny-side-up eggs beside the bacon, added the buttered toast, and carried the plate to the small bistro set she’d wiped down. Moriah stepped back, putting the table between them as he sat.
His gaze flicked toward her, and a smirk tugged at his mouth when he caught her staring, her eyes wide and her mouth agape.
“That was a joke, Maura. I’m in the military. My job requires me to go through a psych exam every once in a while.”
Relief washed over her. She closed her mouth, and some of the tension eased from her shoulders. “Oh. Okay.”
She crossed the small kitchen, tossed the cloth into the sink, then leaned against the counter and studied him as he ate. His jaw flexed with each bite, the movement drawing her attention more than it should. His forearms tightened and relaxed as he lifted the fork—controlled and efficient, like everything else about him.
And then there was his mouth. His lips werefirm, but with a softness to their shape that held her gaze. Moriah found herself wondering what it would be like to be kissed by a man like him—then immediately shut that thought down. A guy who looked like that didn’t lack for attention, and she had no doubt he’d taken full advantage of it.
Still, she noticed she hadn’t seen a real smile from him yet, and despite herself, she wondered what it would look like.
Suddenly conscious of ogling him, she cleared her throat. “So, is your name C-a-s-e-y or K-C?”
“It’s K-C, as in Kevin Christopher. But nobody’s called me by my full name since I was a little kid, and then, only when I was in trouble.”
She tilted her head in curiosity. “Were you in trouble a lot as a kid?”
“That’s putting it mildly.” He pointed his fork at her. “But we’re not talking about me—we’re talking about you.”
She lifted one shoulder in what she hoped passed for a bored shrug. “What’s to talk about? I needed a place to stay, and your uncle was kind enough to rent me his house.”
