He grinned. “Surprise me. I have onions, mushrooms, spinach, broccoli, bacon, sausage. If I have it, I like it, so you figure out what to put in them, Miss Fancy Foodist.”
It took a second for her mind to clock the title, and her wolf chuffed inside her, charmed all over again.
She opened his closet door and reached for a black shirt, but then saw the Rolling Thunder MC logo, and her stomach fell to her feet.
What the fuck was she doing? A biker was a fun excursion, not a romantic possibility.
How many times had her mother pointed out there are men you fuck for fun and adventure, and men you marry, and they are rarely the same person.
She found a deep green shirt with a Caterpillar logo, and it came to her mid-thigh. She had leggings and a shirt in her car, and she’d put them on before she left, but this would work for breakfast.
She found the eggs without having to look twice — commercial refrigerator, organized the way his knife displays were, everything exactly where it should be. Same with the cast-iron pan, hanging on a hook beside the stove.She pulled the second-largest one down, set it on the gas burner, and started pulling ingredients.
By the time Knife made it downstairs wearing jeans and no shirt, barefoot and sexier than sin, she’d cooked bacon while she chopped the mushrooms, onions, and broccoli, and had the cheese grated in a neat little pile. She was whisking eggs while the onions sautéed in some bacon grease, and his smile told her he took it all in within seconds — including the fact she had the indoor grill preheated.
“I adore efficiency,” he said, lifting the venison she’d sliced into steaks. “Even when you do my job for me.” He considered them a second. “Clearly, you know what you’re doing there, too.”
Her wolf lifted its head and took a long, satisfied breath.
Stop it,she told the bitch, but her wolf ignored her.
He got to work on the steaks, searing them before they went on the grill, while she made the omelets.
She’d made coffee earlier, and he poured it while the steaks cooked — exactly the way she liked it, and she narrowed her eyes at him.
“How did you know?”
“I didn’t put it together until you told me your grandmother is June. Turns out, she’s talked about her favorite granddaughter quite a lot. Including how she likes her coffee with more milk than coffee, but not near sweet enough.”
He settled onto the stool across from her with a grin. “I have an excellentmemory.”
She filed that away and focused on her omelet while she considered the fact her grandmother liked him enough to share personal tidbits.
Because if her grandmother didn’t like you, she didn’t share much of anything. How much she talked was directly proportional to what she thought of you, and the woman was an uncannily accurate barometer.
Tuesday wasn’t sure if that made this better or worse.
He moaned in pleasure before saying, “Perfect omelet, and that’s damned hard to do with five eggs. No idea how you managed to stuff it so full, but shit, you’re good.”
“Right back atcha with the steaks. Perfectly seared, perfectly rare, about the temperature of a panicked deer you chase a hundred yards before you manage to bring it down.”
They ate in the kind of easy silence that didn’t need filling. Outside, the surrounding forest was suffused with early light coming through the trees, and she could see the valley below through the kitchen window, distant and soft in the morning mist.
“What does your weekend look like?” he asked eventually.
“I finish my brother’s Wellington today. Family lunch Sunday.” She considered. “You?”
“I usually head to the MC’s compound Friday evening. Made an exception last night.” He took a long drink of coffee. “I’m working long shifts at the restaurant this weekend to help with the Valentine’s Day rush. Off Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday-day. We bring cattle down late Wednesday so we can get started with the slaughter first thing Thursday. Longtwo days of work, and then I head to the compound Friday evening, usually stay until Sunday night.”
He took another bite of his omelet, and she understood he was laying out his life. His schedule, his brothers, and the fact they owned his weekends. No pretense.
She respected that more than she wanted to.
“Monday?” she asked, because she was apparently incapable of self-preservation.
Something shifted in his expression, subtle but there. “Open.” He set his coffee down. “Mondays and Tuesdays are almost always entirely mine.”
She looked at her plate and then back at him, thinking he’d kind of said “Tuesday is almost entirely mine,” and wished that might actually be the case.
