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GENEVIEVE
The next day came quickly, and the rising sun washed my anger away. We settled into a sense of familiarity that should have worried me. Instead, I’m finding myself more and more comfortable with the four men inhabiting the house around me. It’s almost easy to forget I’m a prisoner in this place and that they kidnapped me from my apartment. How long ago was that again? Strangely, this is all starting to feel normal.
When I come downstairs this morning, they are settled around the living area in various poses of comfort. Eric is standing at the stove, pushing eggs around in a pan. Grumpy Pants is at the table, reading a paper that looks older than the house we’re staying in. Archer doesn’t seem to be anywhere without his cell phone or his tablet, a detail I tuck away for later. It didn’t work last time, but I’m playing the long game now. The more comfortable they get with me, the more they’ll let their guard down.
When Eric sets a plate on the table, points at me with his spatula, and then at the plate, I get the message loud and clear—sit down and eat. Honestly, I’m starving, and I’ve long since stopped thinking they are going to drug me. What good would it do? Eric has already seen me actively flirt with him. The only one of the four men I’d be wary of taking food from is Grumpy Pants. He seems like he’d sooner put arsenic in my food than feed me. Of course, that also doesn’t seem like his style. He’d probably put a bullet between my eyes rather than mess with poisons.
I lower myself into the chair and take in the heaping plates of food Eric sets on the table. There’s plenty for all of us, I notice, so I’m not surprised when the others are drawn by the smell of bacon grease and Eric’s cheerful, “Food’s ready!” Eggs, bacon, and sausage, and even a stack of pancakes sit on the table, begging to be eaten. The plate Eric made for me has all of those options piled on it. I don’t question the amount he’s given me, I simply dig in. I went too many nights without food in my younger years to question how I’m going to eat all this. I’ll stop once I can’t eat anymore.
Eric takes the seat to my left, winking at me as he fills his own plate. Surprisingly, Booker takes up the seat to my right. He smiles at me but quickly looks away in favour of filling his plate. I watch as he slaps a few pancakes on his plate and reaches for the peanut butter in the middle of the table.
I wrinkle my nose. “Peanut butter?”
Eric snorts from my other side. “Don’t get him started on PB pancakes.”
Narrowing his eyes on Eric, Booker grumbles, “Fuck off.” When he turns to me, he gestures to the peanut butter jar. “Pancakes go so much better with peanut butter. It’s best to mix peanut butter chips into the batter, I think, but they are hard to find here.” He frowns. “Fuck, I miss Pop-Tarts.”
I study him for a second, taking in everything from his Southern American accent to the way he carries himself. His posture is damn near perfect. If not for his ruggedness, I’d think he was part of the elite, but no. His coarseness doesn’t fit with that idea. When he reaches for the bacon, his sleeve pulls up, revealing an intricate tattoo that screams patriotism. Silhouetted in the collage is an image of soldiers.
Ah, I think.Military. That makes far more sense.
“I’ve never had peanut butter on my pancakes,” I muse. “I’m intrigued.”
“Oh, not you too!” Eric grouses. “It’s atrocious.”
The corners of my eyes crinkle as I gesture towards the peanut butter jar after Booker covers the top of his pancakes. “May I?”
Booker pauses for a moment, along with Archer. Grumpy Pants, to his credit, continues on as if nothing is amiss. He doesn’t even look up, happy to keep reading his old newspaper rather than pay any attention to me.
Dropping the butter knife into the jar, Booker passes the peanut butter to me. I study the label, noticing that it’s chunky, before grabbing the knife and spreading a good helping over my pancake. “Do we add syrup?”
“You can.” Booker shrugs. “Can’t go wrong with syrup.”
Everyone is quiet as I reach for the syrup and pour it on top. Booker watches closely as I simply pick up the pancake and take a bite, rather than using a fork and knife. The elite would have turned up their noses at me eating like a barbarian, but it’s easier to pick up the smaller pancake this way. Plus, you get a large bite of syrupy, peanut butter goodness like this.
The first bite makes me moan as I set the pancake down and wipe my face. Four pairs of eyes glance towards me. Booker’s gaze stays trained on my lips as I lick them, and everything inside me tells me to take advantage.
“Wow,” I say on a groan. “You’re right—that’s amazing.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Booker agrees, looking into my eyes again. “Nothing beats peanut butter pancakes, except for maybe peanut butter waffles, but again, this is England.”
A slow smile pulls at my lips. “I mean, I can think of at least one thing better than them, but they are definitely a close second.” I make sure my meaning isn’t lost behind my words and meet his eyes as I allude to sex, and though I can tell he follows what I’m saying, he only clears his throat.
“Right, well. They are good. These assholes don’t get the appeal.”
“Because they are fucking disgusting,” Archer retorts. “I don’t know how you can eat such trash.”
“Get the fuck outta here,” Booker counters. “You British have no taste.” His eyes land on me. “Except you. Clearly, you have the best taste.”
For a moment, sadness pricks at me, becauseclearlymy tastes aren’t the greatest. I’d been engaged to a cheating asshole, after all. But we’re talking about breakfast foods here, not my taste in men. Considering I’m attracted to every single one of my kidnappers, I’m starting to worry about my sanity and good instincts.
“What other secrets are you hiding?” I purr, leaning forward to peer at his arm. “Is there more to your tattoo?”
Archer snorts, clearly understanding what I’m doing, but Booker, despite knowing I’m flirting, only tips his head as if he’s wearing a cowboy hat. The move does something to me I’m not expecting. I’ve never considered myself attracted to the whole cowboy aesthetic, but damn if I’m not imagining myself saving a horse and riding a cowboy right now.
“I’m pretty much covered,” he answers. “I add to it whenever I’m able to.”
“I’d love to see,” I murmur, taking another bite. I make sure to lick my lips as I do, drawing his eyes again. “Perhaps you could show me.”
