She followed him through to the kitchen, and he saw her take a breath and catalog the smells — bacon and sausage warming in the oven, bread sliced and waiting by the stove. A cast-iron pan with bacon grease in it, waiting for him to turn the heat back on.
He pulled the egg mixture from the fridge and saw her eyeing the bottle he had chilling in a bowl of ice on the counter.
“Sparkling shiraz?” she asked.
“Guy at the wine store said it works with French toast.”
He turned the eye on under the cast-iron pan. “Said something about the fruit cutting through the richness. He knows about beer, so I’m hoping he knows wine and isn’t full of shit.”
“Oh, he definitely knows his wine, this is an exceptional year.” She was quiet a moment, watching him dip the first slice of bread. “Did you tell him what it was for?”
“Told him a fancy foodie was coming for breakfast, and I needed something that’d work with French toast.”
He laid the bread in the pan, and the sizzle told him he had the heat exactly right, which is a trick for the first piece.
He heard her fixing her coffee and then settling onto the stool behind him. When he glanced back, she was opening the bottle with the ease of someone who’d done it a million times, and she poured two glasses.
He plated the French toast in stacks, pulled the bacon and sausage from the oven, and set everything on the table. The maple syrup was already out, and he sat across from her and picked up his fork.
The sparkling shiraz was excellent, and the wine guy had been right about it working with the French toast.
“How did your day with the Wellington go?” he asked.
“It came out beautifully, thanks to this wonderful butcher letting me pick the perfect tenderloin.”
“It’s good to have professionals who’ll bend the rules,” he said with a smile.
“It is,” she agreed. “My brother tells me he had a wonderful Valentines Day meal, and I stopped him before he could tell me more.”
He chuckled. “Some things, siblings don’t need to know.”
“Damned straight.”
Conversation stayed light, and she helped him clean up when they finished.
He wanted to stop her — she was way too comfortable in his kitchen for a second visit, and his weekend with his brothers had reminded him of their secrets, and why letting a pack-wolf into his life wasn’t an option.
And yet, here he was, encouraging it.
“You ready to head upstairs?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Absolutely.”
- - -?- - -
Tuesday walked in front of him, her wolf wanting to lead rather than follow while she could.
Breakfast had been too…intimate. She was glad to get it behind her so the scene could start.
Knife had already moved the big mat under the central beam. The pulleys and cables hung ready, silent and waiting. He gestured for her to stand in the open space, and she undressed before stepping to the mat.
He walked a slow circle around her before stopping in front of her and handing her a heavy-duty ponytail holder.
“Top of your head. Not at the back.”
She bent over, finger-combed her hair, wrapped the holder around it, twisted it a few times, and stood, feeling silly.
“Arms up,” he said quietly.
