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“The shirt you stole from me all those years ago. Wear that one. Please?”
It was thepleasethat got me. Well, that and every other stinking thing about this guy.
“Ah, you caught that, did you?” I teased as I bent to get the Music City shirt from the bottom drawer.
He took it from my hands and gently turned me to face him so he could dress me himself. “Nope, didn’t miss that you still wear my shirt, Freckles. In fact, seeing you in it was what gave me hope that maybe I still had a tiny chance. That I hadn’t screwed things up so badly I’d never be able to win you back.”
The look in his gaze as he stared at me was intense and meaningful, but like all the other times things started to get too heavy, that panic returned, clawing its way up my throat and threatening to strangle me.
Desperate to ease the sudden tension I felt building, I popped up on my tiptoes and planted a quick kiss against Roan’s lips before squeezing my way from between him and the dresser. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.” I adopted a light and breezy tone as I skip-walked toward the open bedroom door. “I haven’t gotten any better in the kitchen in the past several years, but I can manage to pop a few pieces of bread into a toaster if that works for you.”
He followed after me, his big hands cupping my hips as I led the way down the hall toward the kitchen.
“How about this? You make the toast and coffee, I’ll handle everything else.”
I tried to remember the last time a man had cooked for me and came up short. Hell, even Roan hadn’t done it in the past. Mainly because both of us were barely a step from dangerous in the kitchen back then. But if he wanted to cook for me—again—while I got to sit back and enjoy the view, who was I to complain?
“Sounds good to me.” We entered the living room, and I spun around on my heel, sidestepping Roan and reaching to give that firm, yummy ass of his a smack. “Get in that kitchen and feed me.”
He kept walking, looking back at me over his shoulder with a wink that made my lady parts hum. “Don’t think I’ll let that smack slide. I’ll punish you later. When we’re in the shower,” he promised.
And I couldn’t freaking wait.
26
ALMA
Isat on one of the barstools as Roan moved around my kitchen with the kind of efficiency that made me incredibly horny. God, what was it about a man who knew how to cook that was so freaking hot?
After the near-death experience, Tortellini was happily chowing down from his food bowl without a care in the world, but I worried Roan wouldn’t be so quick to forget. As he cooked two perfectly sunny-side-up eggs in one skillet and fried bacon in the other, he kept casting ugly looks at the cat, who either didn’t seem to notice, or didn’t care.
“You know that cat needs to go on a serious diet, right?” He pointed a spatula at Tortellini.
“He is how he is,” I decreed before sinking my teeth into a buttery piece of toast. “Besides, who am I to judge a fellow food lover?” I asked around a full mouth, spraying crumbs all over the counter.
Roan rolled his eyes on a chuckle before turning back to the stove. Just as he slid the eggs onto two separate plates, his phone started to ring from the back pocket of his jeans.
I’d pouted when he pulled them on earlier, but I understood he was leery to be around popping grease without proper coverage. Fortunately, he still hadn’t put on a shirt.
He pulled the phone out and looked at the screen. There was no missing the way the muscle in his jaw jumped as he stuffed it back into his pocket without answering.
I watched the whole scene with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as I slowly chewed my toast. We’d been in a bubble for the past twelve hours, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that a pin had been stuck in it.
“You need to take that?” I asked, unable to keep my curiosity in check.
A low growl rumbled from his throat. “No. It’s just some asshole who’s handling Randall’s estate or whatever.” He flipped the bacon over in the skillet. “Already told him I didn’t want whatever that piece of shit left me. Told him to burn it for all I cared, but he didn’t listen.”
I blinked, trying to absorb that information. “Wait.” I gave my head a shake. “Randall left you something when he died?”
“Guess so,” Roan grumbled, keeping his back to me.
“And you don’t know what it could possibly be?”
That finally got him to turn around and face me, bracing his hands wide on the countertop across from me. “Not a clue. Not that it matters. I don’t want it. I don’t want anything from that man. He should’ve taken it all to hell with him.”
“Don’t you have, I don’t know, people or something to handle this kind of thing for you? How did this guy even get your number? I mean, you’re famous, right? Isn’t your cell number supposed to be private?”
“Supposed to be,” he mumbled, dropping his head. “But my manager’s kind of pissed at me at the moment, so this is his way of punishing me.”
