Page 21 of Russian Rescue

“You cook?” I took another bite.

“Oh, yeah. I’m a whiz in the kitchen. I love cooking.”

With a snort, I set down my empty bowl. “I burn water.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. You’re not exactly the Martha Stewart type.” He laughed and took his last bite. “Well, unless Martha Stewart has a secret life as a badass assassin. You never know.”

Pursing my lips, I tipped my head. “It’s true. You never know. Maybe we’ll run into her on an op someday.”

Wes laughed at what I assumed was the same vision swirling around in my head. Martha Stewart decked out in black, blasting her way through a fight with an assault rifle.

“Dude,” Wes said between laughter. “I’m literally picturing her in a full-on battle but baking a cake while she’s taking out bad guys.”

“Me too.” I laughed with him. “Now I’m never going to look at her the same.”

Our laughter conjoined then petered off. Wes closed his eyes and slumped back against the couch.

“You must be exhausted after what you went through.”

“Yeah. I’m pretty wiped.”

“Why don’t you take the recliner, and I’ll take the couch. I’ll go grab us some blankets from the closet.”

“Sweet, thanks.”

Wes stood up and stretched, his short t-shirt lifting and giving me a peek at those incredible abs again.

“I don’t suppose Oleg has pajamas, does he? These pants are freaking tight, and I need to get them off.”

I swallowed my inappropriate comment about taking his pants off. “Yeah. He keeps clothes of varying sizes for operatives who crash here.” I pointed to a closet door in the hallway. “Just grab what you want.”

“Awesome.” Wes walked over to the door and opened it, then pulled out some sweatpants.

“Bathroom’s down there if you need a shower or anything.”

“I’m so tired I don’t want to shower, but I haven’t in a week, so I won’t torture you with my B.O. tonight.”

“I appreciate that.” I laughed. “I’ll get the beds set up.”

Wes disappeared down the hallway, and I heard the bathroom door close. When the shower water turned on, I laid out blankets and pillows on the recliner and the couch. After I got done, I stripped off my hidden tactical gear and tossed on some clean clothes from the closet, then collapsed on the couch.

The water turned off, and a few minutes later I heard Wes’s feet padding down the hallway. I glanced up from my phone where I’d been doing some research and flicked my gaze to Wes.

His sexy body looked even hotter in nothing but the baggy, grey sweatpants he wore. It felt like someone shoved a sock in my mouth as I soaked in the sight of him toweling off his wet hair.

“Holy shit. That felt amazing.”

That looks amazing, I wanted to say, but instead said, “I bet.”

With a heavy sigh, he flopped back into the recliner. “Oh. This is like heaven. I’ve been sleeping on that crappy cot for a week. I missed my bed.”

“I bet,” I repeated, still unable to form more words with Wes sitting there shirtless and beyond sexy with his wet, tousled waves.

“After we took the money from that Colombian cartel a few years ago, I went and splurged on a killer bed.” He flipped the leg rest up. “Cost like ten grand, but it’s like sleeping on a cloud. I swear I can barely sleep anywhere else now. But this... this is gonna work. I need to write down the brand and model and order one of these bad boys.”

He lifted his hands and crossed them behind his head, only accentuating every hard ripple and cut muscle on his body. I ripped my eyes away and focused on the ceiling.

“Yeah. I did a little splurging with my millions too.”