Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 38249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 191(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 127(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 191(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 127(@300wpm)
Who is this man? He does not even remotely resemble the hulking giant who bullies other skaters on the ice and tells reporters to fuck off just for fun.
"I was going to make you breakfast," I finally manage to protest. "You almost died yesterday. I should be serving you in bed, or something."
He doesn't even look up from the pan. "If you want to serve me in bed, I'm all for eating you until you're wrung out. But you're not cooking in my kitchen."
The "my kitchen" is said with weird, possessive pride. The "eating you" part makes my stomach do gymnastics.
"Why not?" I demand, trying to sound offended and not…well, turned on.
He turns, lifting an eyebrow. "You almost murdered me with your delicious fucking fudge yesterday. I'm not taking any chances."
"That was one time," I mutter, crossing my arms. "Also, it's not my fault you ate it. It wasn't even for you." That's a lie. That batch was totally for him.
He laughs, tossing a handful of spinach in the pan. "Sit. Drink coffee. I'll handle the rest."
I want to argue, but my legs are still jelly, so I plop onto a barstool at the end of the island and watch him move.
He's so damn efficient. He's got eggs scrambled and bacon sizzling in three minutes flat. He pours two mugs of coffee and brings mine over, setting it right in front of me with a flourish.
I take a sip and almost moan. It's actually perfect.
He leans in, presses a kiss to my temple, then drifts back to the stove. He seems so comfortable, like I'm supposed to be here. Like we're supposed to be doing this.
I have no idea what to do with my hands, so I cradle the coffee and pretend I'm not staring at his ass.
"I hope you're hungry," he says, flipping the bacon.
Starving, actually. But not for food.
I pretend to sip my coffee instead of saying that. "You're really good at this."
"Cooking?"
"Everything."
He glances over, catching my gaze. For a second, he's dead serious. "Not everything, Sunshine. Not even close. But you make me want to try."
He means it, I realize. He's trying for me. The idea that someone like him would even want to try for me is too much. I have to look away, focus on the coffee, or the view, or literally anything other than the butterflies dancing the samba in my stomach.
He slides a plate across the counter a few minutes later. Scrambled eggs, bacon, sautéed spinach, and a slice of perfect, golden-brown toast. He even cut the toast in half, diagonally, like a gentleman.
He makes his own plate, then sits beside me, so close our knees touch. He doesn't even hesitate to drape an arm around my shoulder, like he wants me as close as he can get me.
"You okay?" he asks, his voice a little concerned when I don't say anything.
"Yeah." I nod, trying to get myself together. "Just…haven't had a real breakfast with anyone since I had roommates in college."
He hums like he understands, digging into his food. He eats like a man who's used to devouring entire cows, but he still manages to make it look hot.
I pick at my eggs, not sure what to say.
Luckily, he does it for me.
"You got any family aside from your mom?" he asks.
I blink, not expecting the question. "Foster brothers," I say. "But no biological family. At least, none that I know of."
He nods, like he already knew. Maybe he did. "How many foster brothers do you have?"
"Four." I smile, scooping up a bite of egg. "All older, all idiots. Two are stationed overseas right now. The other two scattered as soon as they turned eighteen." My smile slips at the reminder. "We've always tried to stay close, but I haven't seen any of them in about a year."
He absorbs this in silence. "You ever see your mom?"
The question lands with a thud.
"No," I whisper. "She tried a few times after I aged out, but it was usually when she wanted something. Eventually, I just stopped answering."
He doesn't apologize for her or offer pity. He just squeezes my knee and accepts what I've said, as if it's another piece of me, and then moves on.
"Any Christmas traditions?" he asks, spearing a forkful of eggs.
I laugh, shaking my head. "Not unless you count avoiding family court."
He grins, which makes me grin, and for a second, it's not awkward at all.
"What about you?" I ask. "Any family traditions?"
He shrugs, but his eyes go soft. "My mom bakes like it's her job. She doesn't use honey, obviously." The way his lips curl at the corners is all little-boy mischief. "We watch football with my dad, and then my brother always tries to beat me at hockey on Xbox. He always fails. We eat too much, watch Die Hard, and end up passed out in the living room."