Page 54 of Tennessee Trouble

Brandt’s eyes go wide, a sweet smile matching pace. “You have it?”

I nod. “It’s a comfort show, and one of my favorite things to do is to curl up and watch it with some popcorn and⁠—”

Before I can finish, Brandt is hopping out of bed and heading for the stairs. I laugh, his bare ass as white as a bleached sheet.

“I’ll make the popcorn!”

15

LINDEE

A forceful clang disrupts me, my brain pinging for a signal like a broken sonar. Carefully, I open my eyes, waiting for the hamster on a wheel inside my head to get moving. It takes a moment, my surroundings slowly coming into view, an ease taking over as I recognize where I am.

My own bed.

I let out a huff, sinking back down into the sheets, trying to judge what time it is based on how the light is streaming through the blinds on my window. Er…well, not streaming, since apparently I closed the blinds last night. Which is a little weird, since I can’t remember the last time I did that. I purposefully leave them at a very specific angle so that the morning sun hits my face, making it impossible for me to go back to sleep. Nature’s personal alarm clock.

Bang!

The reverberation echoes again, and my heart leaps. The confirmation that I didn’t make it up pricks my fight-or-flight reflexes. There’s someone in my house. Very specifically my kitchen, based on the sound of it.

I need to check it out. I know that. But I also know that I’m safe in this bed. My sheets will protect me.

Okay, no, they won’t. That doesn’t change the fact that they are warm, and cozy, and comfy, and not down there where a stranger is doing God knows what in my kitchen.

Maybe I should call the cops. No, no. I need to confirm that it’s a human before I do that. I’m not going to call Deputy Sheldon out here again because there is a raccoon rummaging through my trash. Once was bad enough.

Lindee, just go do it…

Right…here goes…

Throwing the blankets and sheets off of me, I spring out of bed, shove my glasses onto my face, and grab the first pair of sweats I can find. They’re old, way too big, and have a hole that sits right over my left butt cheek, but they’ll do. The oversized tee I slept in should cover the hole anyway. Moreover, when this does just turn out to be the return of Ricky the Raccoon, he’s not going to care if I show off a little cheek.

I make a quick grab for the baseball bat I keep under the bed and shove my phone in my pocket, ready to charge ahead. Halfway down the stairs, I hear more clanging, although this time it’s followed by a softly muttered curse. One that I can barely hear, and only because I’m listening closely.

“Ohhh…ahhh…”

A sweet sizzle fills the air, replacing the curse with an unmistakable smell. One that makes me think of cold winter mornings, holidays, and family time around the kitchen table.

Pancakes.

I stop on the bottom step, my eyes landing on my so-called intruder. The one who is definitely not Ricky the Raccoon. Or an intruder, since I let him in yesterday. Most importantly of the things that he’s not, though, is dressed.

“It had to be you…” Brandt croons, swaying from side to side as he nudges the pancakes with a spatula. “It had to be you…”

I let out a giggle, my hand flying to my mouth to try and muffle the sound. I don’t want to give away my position just yet. I want to be able to enjoy this. Take it all in and commit it to memory.

After all, it’s not every day you wake up to find a super sexy man cooking pancakes in your kitchen in nothing but his skivvies.

At least he’s not all the way naked. Safety first.

“Sinatra, huh?” I ask, breaking the moment.

Brandt spins around, looking as suave and light on his feet as someone on stage in a Broadway play. A smile tugs at his lips as he sees me, turning his serenade to me, instead of griddling carbs.

I giggle again, this time not bothering to hide it. He looks so at ease and natural in my kitchen, like this is where he spends every morning making breakfast. Like these counters greet him in those skin-hugging boxer briefs on a daily basis.

“My dad sings it to my mom when he’s trying to get her to smile,” he answers, turning back to the griddle and flipping the pancakes. “In forty years, I’ve never seen it not work.”