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“Fuck him,” she says sharply. “The way you work? You deserve a night off and a little fun. You deserve to be happy, Avery.”
“I am,” I say, and it astonishes me how genuinely I mean it. My smile has hardly dimmed since Nick left the apartment.
To be honest, it’s barely dimmed since I met him.
“I have to run now, okay? He’s waiting for me upstairs.”
“Yeah, yeah, rub it in,” she says, exhaling a quiet laugh. “Go on. Enjoy yourself. I’ll expect a full report tomorrow.”
~ ~ ~
Tasha was right. Nick does look sinfully hot making breakfast. She’d be even more jealous to know that not only is he amazing in bed, but he’s also incredible in the kitchen.
Seated on one of the tall barstools behind the island counter, I take a sip of my bubbly mimosa and stare in awe as he delivers two plates of perfectly prepared eggs Benedict that look like something out of a gourmet magazine. Fluffy poached eggs float atop a lightly browned English muffin stacked with a folded slice of Canadian bacon and a thin bed of dark green spinach. Creamy yellow Hollandaise sauce is artfully drizzled over the whole thing, with finely chopped green onions sprinkled on top. He’s finished off each plate with a colorful serving of cut fruit and juicy, ripe berries.
“When you said you were making breakfast, I pictured scrambled eggs and bacon. Maybe a slice of toast on the side. This meal is insane.”
His mouth curves. “I don’t believe in doing anything halfway.”
“So I’m noticing.” I smile up at him. “Lucky me.”
His gaze is locked on me, and the look he gives me makes my stomach flutter with something deeper than basic hunger. After a moment, he indicates for me to start eating. “Bon appetit.”
I slice into the egg and can’t hold back my moan as I savor the first decadent bite. Nick watches me the whole time, seeming in no hurry to dig in to his own meal. As I chew and swallow and sigh at the explosion of delicious flavors filling my mouth, his blue eyes glint with a spark of interest that’s nothing short of carnal.
Seeing desire that hot in his intense gaze makes my thoughts heat up too. It doesn’t help that he’s standing there shirtless and barefoot, wearing just a pair of faded jeans that hang low on his lean hips. For what certainly isn’t the first time, my eyes roam the muscled planes and ridges of his chest and arms and rippled abdomen.
He’s beautiful; there is no other word for him. Not even the tangle of angry scars that slash his right forearm and hand can diminish the masculine perfection of Nick’s body. His face is equally devastating—especially when he’s looking at me as if he’s about to leap over the counter and devour me.
“It’s good?” he asks.
“So good.” I lick my lips, uncertain what I find more appealing—him or the fantastic breakfast he prepared for me. “You cook better than a lot of chefs I know.”
“Is that right?” He seems surprised, flattered. He shrugs, but I can see the pride in his expression. And something else, which I’m tempted to call regret. “Cooking started out as therapy for me. A hobby I picked up many years ago when I needed to work to regain the use of my hand.”
He says this as if we both know what happened to him. I want to ask, but I don’t want to dampen this moment the way I sense forcing him to explain his scars to me would.
Leaning his hip against the counter, he crosses his muscled arms over his chest. “I cook now mainly because I enjoy it. It still helps me focus and recalibrate the way nothing else can. Almost nothing, that is.”
I smile as I stab a ripe, red strawberry on the end of my fork. “Well, I think you should know I’m feeling very spoiled right now.”
“Good. We’re only getting started.”
His smirk is dark with erotic promise, and I feel a mix of disappointment and relief when he finally breaks eye contact to pick up his fork and begin eating his breakfast over the counter. We eat in companionable silence for a few moments before he reaches for the bottle of champagne and refreshes my mimosa.
“No problems getting away from work, I hope?”
“No. No problems.” I give him a nonchalant shrug, hating the acid taste of my lie.
I should have told him before now what I do for a living. If he’d think less of me because I earn my paycheck serving drinks, then I’d be better off without him. I’d be smarter to find out now, while I can still break away from him with my heart and my sanity intact. That’s what I tell myself, but the fact that I’ve let the fib exist for this long only makes the truth seem all the further out of my reach.
“What about you?” I ask, trying to soothe my parched throat with a sip of champagne-spiked orange juice. “You’ve been gone for two weeks. I’m sure you have important business things you should be doing right now.”
He smiles as he chews a bite of his Benedict. “I can’t think of a single thing I need to be doing, business or otherwise. Except you, Ms. Ross. Which I mean to take care of just as soon as we finish here. You’re going to need sustenance for all the things I have in mind.”
I feel my cheeks flood with warmth, but I can’t resist teasing him. “Oh, now I see what’s going on here. This amazing meal isn’t so much about impressing me with your culinary skills as it is fueling me up for a marathon in your bed.”
He chuckles, his eyes riveted on me. “Marathon, yes. Without a doubt. The bed is optional.”
