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He marches toward me, and I turn my back to the stove at the sound of his heavy footsteps approaching. Holding the spatula in my hand between us like a shield, I glare daggers at him.
Stopping, he looks me up and down. “You of all people should know I can actually be quite nice. Especially when you were yelling,Please. Yes, please.”
A gasp rips from my throat. The heavy tone of orgasm-ridden female that pours from his mouth makes my face heat. Biting my lower lip, I peer up at the indent in the center of his bottom lip. “We said we weren’t going to talk about that.”
While I wait for him to answer, I notice the scruff is back on his face. He’s no longer the clean-shaven man from the day before. I swear I’m still chafed from the beard burn he left on me, and that’s all it takes for my thighs to ache at the memory of him there, eating me like I was a delicious meal.
He must not have the same fond memories because he glowers at me. “Consider me bringing it up as retaliation for not telling me I had flour in my hair…and on my forehead.”
I peer up, and sure enough, the white specks are gone.
“Mrs. Williams told me.”
His voice is menacing. Almost dangerous. The toast pops behind me, and I jump. As if sensing his prey is ready to be taken, he moves in close, pressing me against the stove. “I suggest you watch that attitude before I turn you over my knee.”
My mouth suddenly goes dry. He turns away at the telltale sound of the coffeemaker finishing its brewing. The delicious aroma of good coffee fills the air. It takes me a moment to gather my bearings, and he’s already halfway out the door when I find my voice. “You know I don’t have to help you.”
“You also don’t have to be a brat about helping me either.”
He disappears, and I turn, slamming my fist down. I can’t believe—
My skin sizzles, and a fiery pain shoots up my hand.
“Fuck,” I hiss. I snatch my hand away from the stove top where it had gotten too close to a burner.
Seriously?
seven
When Cameron walks back in,I have a drenched paper towel wrapped around my palm and I’m stubbing my toe into the floor over and over in hopes that will deflect from the searing pain in my hand.
As soon as I hear him, I march back to the traitorous stove to check on the eggs. I continue to scramble them, still holding the wet towel to my skin before turning the burner off.
“What’s that?” my uncle asks, peering over.
I square my shoulders. “Nothing.” My words come out clipped. If he hadn’t distracted me earlier, I wouldn’t be in this predicament.
“It doesn’t look like nothing.”
“Just a minor…burn,” I tell him, moving to search for some butter in the refrigerator.
He sighs, the sound so full off annoyance that it straightens my spine in an instant. I slam the fridge door and start to walk back to the toaster.
“Come here,” he demands.
“I’m fine.”
He rattles away in the cupboards as I place the dish full of single-serve butters on the counter next to the toaster. “I said come here,” he grunts. When I don’t listen, he grabs the crook of my elbow and firmly steers me toward the island. Once I’m there, he pours milk into a shallow bowl then points to one of the stools. “Sit.”
I do as he asks, eyeing him warily. He takes my burnt hand in his with a gentleness I didn’t know he possessed. “Careful,” I tell him, grimacing as he unwraps the now room temperature paper towel.
He continues as if I didn’t say anything, but his touch is careful. “Water doesn’t help burns,” he tells me, using his voice forotherpeople. Not the one he usually uses for me. He gently lays my hand into the bowl of milk. “This should take care of it.”
“Milk?”
He shrugs. “No idea. I only know that it works.”
Staying where he is for a few moments, he peers from me to my hand. He takes the hat off his head, blowing out an exasperated breath. “I should… I’m going to serve the food now,” he says finally.
