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“Just some hot water and coffee right now.”
He points to a sideboard across the room with both hot water and coffee carafes. Nodding at him and flashing him a polite smile, I fish my maple and brown sugar oatmeal packet out of the bag slung over my shoulder and throw it at an empty spot on the dining table.
“Coffee, get in my belly,” I whisper as I grab a cup and press the top of the coffee carafe. Liquid black elixir of the gods flows into the paper container, and I vaguely hear another guest enter the room as I inhale the steam.
“Full breakfast for you again, sir?”
“Sure, Niles,” a male voice responds behind me. Since I’ve heard nothing but Australian accents this morning, the American accent sounds both shocking and comfortable at the same time. There’s another American traveler staying here. Maybe they’ll have some ideas where I can travel after my reservation here runs out tomorrow. “I’m starving. Load up the beans. I’ll just find a spot.”
I fill a cup with water to mix with my oatmeal and turn to head back to my seat, only to stop suddenly and slosh boiling hot water on my hand. Pain radiates up my arm, and my skin burns like I’ve touched a pot of hot soup. I drop the hot water, subconsciously knowing it’s easier to clean up water than coffee. As soon as the cup hits the floor, I put my hand in my mouth and suck on the burn. “Fuck!” I moan.
But I don’t look at my hand. I’m too busy staring at over six feet of masculine man, complete with muscles bulging under his black t-shirt. He squints at me, concern with my burn wrinkles his face, and he runs a hand over dark stubble. “Are you hurt?” he asks.
His voice is like honey and melted butter. Masculine and strong. It also oozes sex and makes my nipples wake up, even as pain flares the length of my arm.
“Uh, dun ah,” I mutter incoherently and roll my eyes at my own uncoolness. My hand may be the injured party, but my mouth doesn’t work. It’s too busy salivating.
The man crosses the room to me in a few steps. “Niles, this woman burned her mouth! Her tongue doesn’t work. Do you have anything for it?” The man walks closer to me, and he’s even hotter up close. “Open your mouth, and let me see your tongue.”
I don’t know why I do it. There’s nothing wrong with my tongue, and it’s not the first part of my body I want this man to inspect. I’d much rather spread my legs and ask for his own brand of pelvic exam, but he demands I show him my tongue in such a firm and controlled voice that I don’t hesitate. I want to do whatever this guy says. “Ahhhh,” I say like I’m at the doctor’s office and getting a strep test.
The man inspects my tongue, looking all the way back to my tonsils, and squints. “I don’t see anything wrong with it. Here, drink this,” he says, handing me a cup of cold water.
I sip the water while inspecting the stranger’s eyes. Light gray, not quite light blue. I’ve never seen anything quite like them. “Thanks,” I mutter, wiping a rogue drop of water from my chin. Great. Now I’m drooling my water. Am I thirty or thirteen?
He turns away to get a cold rag from Niles, and I slosh the cold water on my hand, wincing as the coolness passes over the burn mark currently forming on my skin.
“Here, put this on your hand,” the hot man directs, dabbing my fingers with the cold rag. “I’m not sure what to do about your tongue, but I’ve heard mustard does the trick. Want to hold it out, and I’ll squirt mustard on it?”
I will never live this shit down if I end up marrying this guy and I have to tell my seven sisters that our first act of love was holding my tongue out while he squirted mustard into my mouth. Then again, most of my siblings would simply think that’s a kinky good time.
“I’m Maddox Brewster,” he says, pulling me out of my mental picture of him squirting yellow condiments into my mouth. He squares his wide shoulders and stands up straight like his name means something to me. Is he famous?
He holds out his hand, and I shake it. “Ava Calvert.”
“Can I help you get your breakfast plate, Ava Calvert?”
“No,” I reply, realizing my embarrassment. My face reddens, and heat creeps up my back. “I’m just going to grab my oatmeal packet,” I say, pointing in the direction where I left my food.
No oatmeal packet.
“Where’d it go? I left it right here,” I say, walking to my seat and pointing at the empty place setting.
“Oh, is this yours?” Maddox asks, holding up the brown packet.
“You stole my oatmeal packet?”
He tilts his head to the side, and a smile forms at the corners of his mouth. Is he laughing at me? “I didn’t steal it. I thought it was complimentary or from Niles. That’s been my breakfast spot since I’ve been here for the last week. I thought he was indulging me in a taste of home since I haven’t seen oatmeal here.”
“You have a special breakfast spot you think is yours?”
“That’s really not important here,” he chuckles, waving his hand like he’s waving off something irritating. “Here. It was in my pocket for all of a minute, so it may be warm, but I didn’t mean to steal it.”
I take the packet as he holds it out, and he’s right. It’s warm, and my thighs reflexively rub together at the fact that I’m holding something warm from his pocket that was so close to…other things. Is all of him warm?
“Where are you from?” he asks. His eyes are bright and focused on me, like he’s truly interested in how a fellow American ended up in a Sydney bed and breakfast.
“Illinois.”
