Maddie
It smells amazing in here,” I said, inhaling the aroma of sautéed veggies and something rich and decadent as I joined Hawke and Bella in the kitchen. A beet-and-orange salad was already on the table, along with bottled waters and a fresh mug of coffee, steam curling off the top.
“Coffee’s ready,” Hawke said, not yet glancing my way. He was standing at the sink, a yellow-and-white checkered dishtowel draped over his shoulder, his back to me as he drained a pot of cooked pasta. I took a second to admire the view, dragging my eyes across his broad shoulders and down his back, the curves of his muscles well-defined even underneath the gray hoodie. Both sleeves were pushed up to reveal tattooed forearms, thick and muscular and perfect for pinning me down…
Pull yourself together, train wreck! Red flags, remember? Heart before vag? We talked about this! You’re taking a firm anti-Hawke stance for the rest of this disastrous holiday. Non-negotiable. Got it?
“So, you know how to cook?” I asked, a little too brightly.
“Nope. But since I gave the head chef the week off, you’re outta luck.” He turned to look at me over his shoulder, his smirk changing into a genuine smile when he saw me—probably the first real one he’d offered all night. It felt like a Christmas present.
“Cute shirt,” he said, his eyes glittering. “Makes me wish I had some actual gingerbread cookies for you.”
My heart fluttered. It freaking fluttered. And no, not in a medical emergency sort of way. This was a full-on, five-alarm, bad-boy-induced flutter that didnotbode well for my so-called firm anti-Hawke stance.
“I thought you lived on Soldier Fuel bars,” I said, massaging my chest and willing my heart to behave itself, like,hey, jerkface! I’m trying to save you here! A little cooperation would be nice!
“Only in combat situations.” He set the pasta pot back on the stove and checked on the veggies sizzling away on another burner. “For instance, when I’m too hungover to go shopping.”
“Guess I showed up on the right day, then, because this looks delicious.” I gathered my damp hair into one hand and leaned over the stove to investigate. “Ilovepasta.”
“I know you’re allergic to a bunch of shit, so I kept it pretty basic. Fusilli. Sautéed spinach and mushrooms. Alfredo.” He lifted a wooden spoon to his lips and sampled the sauce, letting out a satisfied moan that made my mouth water—and not from the succulent aroma filling up the kitchen. “Here. Tell me what you think.”
Cupping his hand beneath my chin, Hawke tipped the spoon into my mouth, watching intently as I licked the excess from my lips and swallowed. It was so rich and creamy that one taste had my stomach grumbling in anticipation.
“You made this from scratch?” I asked.
“Hey, I don’t fuck around when it comes to Alfredo.” He released my chin and dipped the spoon back into the pot, taking another sample for himself. “Think it needs more salt?”
“Nope. It’s perfect.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” He smacked his lips together and set the spoon on a small dish off to the side, wiping his hands on the towel. “Have a seat. Sauce needs to simmer about ten more minutes, then I just need to toss the spinach in with the mushrooms and we’re in business.”
Bella followed me to the table in the breakfast nook, her nails clicking on the hardwood floor. The moment I sat down, she put her head in my lap.
“Hey!” Hawke snapped his fingers and pointed at the dog. “We talked about this, Bells. You don’t put your head in a woman’s lap without an invitation.”
“Aww, she’s fine. Such a good girl.” I scratched behind her ears until the dog was putty in my hands, her tongue lolling out, her eyes half-closed. Bella’s infinite affection reminded me of my old canine companion, Turkey. “Aren’t you, baby? What’s a nice girl like you doing with a grumpy old man like Hawke, anyway?”
The grunt that passed for Hawke’s laugh echoed across the kitchen, but before he could retaliate with one of his smart-ass comments, a gust of wind whipped against the cabin, making the lights flicker.
“Oh shit,” he said.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Nothing good.”
“Don’t you have a generator?”
“Yep. But it’s—”
There was a hiss, and a pop, and everything went black.
“—broke,” he finished. “I’m waiting on a part. Fuck.”
I sighed. “Does this mean Soldier Fuel is back on the menu?”
“Not a chance, Cupcake.” Hawke turned off the electric burners and covered the pots. “You’re getting a proper Christmas dinner tonight, blizzard and electrical failures be damned. We’ll just have to improvise.”
