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CHAPTERFIVE
Eden
I cookthat man a breakfast like I’m cooking for my life.
Well, maybe I am.
I can’t leave now. I have nowhere to go, and I fear the outside world almost as much as I fearhim.He’s huge and scary, obviously powerful, and I may have put a brave face on, but I definitely didn’t miss that flash of warning in his eyes when I didn’t immediately obey him. There’s one thing he doesn’t know about me, though. When you’ve already faced the worst-case scenario and lived to tell about it? Danger loses its power over you.
So while hecouldhurt me right now—he could abuse me and take advantage of me and do all kinds of damage—it’s nothing I haven’t experienced before and already survived.
I don’t have a lot in my control right now. One thing Icancontrol is what kind of food I cook.
So that’s what I do while intentionally ignoring the breathtaking gentleman watching me with expressive, deep-set, mesmerizing eyes, the warm, olive-toned complexion of his skin that speaks to his Italian heritage, that chiseled jawline, those strong, utterly masculine hands resting on the table—
Focus, Eden.
The cupboard and refrigerator yield a package of bacon, a carton of eggs, a fresh loaf of sourdough bread, and paper boxes of butter. It’s a lot better when it’s freshly churned from the morning’s milk, but this will do.
When the cast iron skillet’s sizzling hot, I slide thick slabs of peppered bacon onto the surface. The smell of the frying bacon makes my belly churn with hunger, but I wait for the wave of hunger to pass and focus on my work. I sneak a quick peak at Sergio, who watches me as if fascinated. Though he pretends he’s on his phone, he hasn’t moved a muscle.
I find and whisk together the ingredients for buttermilk pancakes and fry a few golden rounds on the griddle. I pair them with softened butter and a small jar of real maple syrup. I make fried eggs with crispy edges and perfectly cooked centers that would melt in your mouth, sprinkled with coarse sea salt and fresh pepper. I slide thick slabs of toasted sourdough buttered liberally beside the eggs and find oranges and a handheld juicer to make fresh juice. Finally, I boil fresh coffee grounds in a pot on the stove, let the contents settle, then filter the fresh coffee into a mug.
“Do you take anything in your coffee?”
He gives me a strange look before he shakes his head. “No.”
I place the loaded plate in front of Sergio, hand him the cup of coffee, then straighten, waiting for him to try it. When he doesn’t, I start to get a bit nervous.
“Is something wrong?” I ask. “Do you—like food like this?”
Did I fool myself into thinking this was a man – sturdy and strong and obviously athletic – with a hearty appetite?
He looks down at the plate of food then back to me. “Of course I do. Do I look like I’m on a diet? I’m waiting for you to getyours.”
Oh.
I completely forgot about mine.
“I didn’t make myself one yet.”
When he draws in a breath and releases it slowly, I realize he’s trying to get control of his temper. My heart begins to beat wildly. I don’t like what happens when people get angry with me, and I have no idea what to expect from him.
“Sit,” he says in a low tone. “And this time, you won’t disobey me.”
There’s a latent threat in his tone and I’m not sure he’s referring to my job security.
I sit.
I watch as he gets a second plate and a fork, places them in front of me, then proceeds to give me half the food that I cooked.
“Eat.” He watches me, as if he wants to see if I’ll obey. My stomach aches, and my job is done, and I don’t want to push things. So I pick up a wedge of toast and take a bite.
His eyes warm. A slow smile spreads across his face. He reaches a hand out to me, then stops halfway and brings his hand back as if I’m made of fire.
“Good girl,” he says in a low tone, his eyes on mine.
