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I would accuse her of thinking she’s too good for my guest bedroom, but it’s not like my couch is that much of an upgrade. Therefore, there has to be some other reason she spends her nights on a leather sofa that barely fits her instead of a comfortable bed.
Hearing the beep of the coffee pot, I look over to see her in a pair of pajama shorts with hearts all over them and a red T-shirt. Her hair is mussed from sleep still, and her face has this soft look that reminds me of my mom. She’s holding a spatula, and it smells like she’s cooking eggs. At least she has learned to turn on the coffee pot before poking the bear. This is a step in the right direction for us.
Looking over at me with a cautious smile, she points at the coffee cup she has put out on the counter. “That’s for you. I’m making us omelets. Do you like ham and cheese?”
She’s cooking for me? I blink at her in surprise. I can’t remember the last time someone cooked me breakfast. Granted, I’m not usually around anyone in the mornings, but still. This is weird … and sort of nice.
Clearing the sleep from my voice, I mumble back, “Yeah.”
She keeps staring at me, as if waiting for something. One of her eyebrows rises slowly, and now I’m racking my brain, trying to figure out what I forgot. She offered me breakfast, and I said yes. I don’t get it.
Question asked, question answered. That just about covers everything, right?
“Unless she expects to be thanked for her nice gesture, Ethan McCoy.” My mother’s voice rings in the back of my head, scolding me just as she did when I was a boy. Shit. Is that what she’s waiting for? There’s only one way to find out.
“Thanks?” I throw out, hoping she stops staring at me.
She gives me a big smile that lights up her entire face, and like some fumbling teenager who has never had his hands up a girl’s shirt, my heart skips a beat.
I would give her a thousand thank yous if she kept smiling at me like that.
Wait … What? Did I just really think that? Fuck, I need some coffee.
~Desirae~
Oh, my God, please tell me this man has a mixing bowl. I can skip the beaters—a spoon will do just fucking fine—but if I don’t get my hands on a big enough bowl, I may scream.
“Woman!” he roars as he wheels out of his room without a shirt on, wearing just sweat pants. “Must you be so fucking loud?”
“I need a bowl,” I say, not hiding my frustration.
“In the cabinet over the fridge.”
“Are you serious? That’s the liquor cabinet.”
“No, the liquor goes beside the fridge for easy access.”
I shake my head as I drag a chair over and climb up to get the bowl. I hear him groan as I can’t help twisting, trying to reach for it. When the air hits my ass cheeks, I realize my shorts are a little too short to be climbing on things in front of him.
I want to climb on him, I immediately think.
Dammit! I tell myself to cut this shit out. I have only been here four days, and even though he is a surly asshole sometimes, he is a damn hot, surly asshole. My need for brownies right this instant is entirely his fault, too!
I shimmy a little before climbing down. Take that, Hammer! If I have to see him rolling around with no shirt and those blue eyes I get lost in every time he looks at me, then he can deal with a hard-on from my ass.
“Wanna tell me what the hell you’re doing?”
“Brownies,” I answer, slamming the bowl down before going right to work, mixing batter.
He laughs. “I figured we would be living on salads and vegetables having you here. Brownies are a surprise.”
I mix with a spoon before I lean over and set the oven to preheat. Taking down a coffee mug, I pour some of the batter into it for later before putting the rest in the pan to bake. Then I lick the spoon, moaning my appreciation.
“Seriously?” he asks. “It can’t be that good.”
“Look here, Macho Man, real women eat chocolate. I don’t care if you are a body builder and it’s cut day. Chocolate is the exception to every rule in the women’s handbook. I want brownies—no, I need them, so just wheel away while I have them, and later on, we can discuss salads.” I dip my spoon in the mug for more batter.
“Raw eggs can’t be healthy,” he says with a half-grin.
“Hammer, unless you want to be pushed to the point you’re begging for brownies, I suggest you back off. You want your coffee, and as a woman, it is my duty to indulge in chocolate.”
