He’s probably the almost same age as your father…
But… he’s so hot.
After the world’s fastest shower—and absolutely no time spent thinking about tattooed men under running water—I barely manage to throw on an outfit before there’s another knock at the door.
“Breakfast.”
I yank it open immediately and storm into the hallway, intentionally clipping his shoulder when I pass. It’s petty and childish, but also very satisfying. Even if it barely garners a reaction from him.
He follows me down the staircase, into the massive foyer below, and sunlight pours through towering windows in brilliant golden sheets. My father is already gone by the time I reach the dining room. A half-finished espresso sits abandoned beside his plate, proof he was here at some point before disappearing into embassy business and diplomatic emergencies.
Jagger and Gunnar are both pushing away from the table when we enter the kitchen. “Morning, sleepyhead,” Jagger greets me with that permanent cocky grin, as he places his dirty dishes into the sink.
Glaring at him, I take the seat farthest away from everyone at the island. When the others leave, Damon moves around the kitchen with quiet efficiency, plating the remaining scrambled eggs and toast onto two dishes before sliding one in front of me. Instead of sitting, he leans against the counter and eats, while I stab halfheartedly at the eggs with my fork, pushing them around the plate without eating.
“You have to actually put food in your mouth for it to count as eating,” Damon states dryly.
I don’t look up. “I said I wasn’t hungry.”
“You skipped lunch and ate three bites of dinner yesterday.” My fork pauses in midair as talks, realizing just how closely he is watching me. “You need to eat.”
I slowly place my fork on the plate and purse my lips, staring at him in open challenge. “I see we’re choosing violence this morning.”
Damon holds my stare as one corner of his mouth twitches upward as he threatens, “You’re not leaving this kitchen until you eat.”
I narrow my eyes and try to stare him down, but he doesn’t budge. In fact, he doesn’t look remotely concerned about winning this argument. My resolve cracks when I realize I’ve already lost, and I mutter, “I don’t like eggs.”
Damon pushes off the counter, takes my plate without complaint, and turns toward the sink. I shove the stool back, the feet scraping lightly against the tile floor. “Where are you going?” he asks without facing me.
I pause halfway off the stool. “Umm…”
“Sit down,” he instructs, his tone deep but still maddeningly calm. “I’ll make you something else.”
He moves around the kitchen with startling ease, riffling through the refrigerator and cabinets with the kind of familiarity that suggests he’s spent more time in here than I realize. His broad shoulders flex beneath the black T-shirt he put on after his run, tattoos shifting across his forearms every time he reaches for something.
It’s annoyingly distracting.
“What do you usually eat?” he asks.
“Yogurt.”
“That’s not a meal.”
“Cereal?”
“That’s worse.” He shakes his head.
He grabs the eggs from the refrigerator and then a bowl from beneath the counter as the skillet warms. “I said I don’t like eg?—”
“Shhh.” A low huff of amusement leaves him as he starts cooking.
My stomach betrays me immediately with a small growl when the aroma of butter and cinnamon rises from the hot pan.
“I thought you weren’t hungry.” He chuckles without turning around, continuing to work on my replacement breakfast.
A few minutes later, Damon slides a plate in front of me. “Oh my God.” I stare at French toast, dusted lightly with powdered sugar, and fresh-cut strawberries. My eyes flit between the plate and him. “You made me French toast?”
“You need to eat.”
