Page 27 of This Bitter Sweet Temptation
The word makes me uncomfortable, even if it’s true.
Until that damn jeweled egg vanishes, we’re stuck together.
One unit. One mission.
In this to the brink of insanity.
“You’d be surprised. He could change his mind on a whim and zero notice.” Sighing, I push her plate in front of her. “Here’s my peace offering. Enjoy.”
“Accepted.” She digs her fork into the fluffy eggs with a soft noise of contentment. “Mmm, these look tasty!”
“Don’t hold back on my account,” I grunt, grabbing my plate and swinging around the island into the seat next to her.
“No, I mean it. Apology accepted. This is a lot better than words.” Her eyes flutter shut as she bites into her toast.
I’ll ignore the obscene moan and take that as her own little olive branch.
We’re not becoming friends.
Shit, friends is too much to ask when we can barely tolerate each other. That chemical outburst yesterday proved it.
I let my anger win, and it’s fair to say she’s working through plenty of crap, too.
Still, we can cope.
We can be professional and try to manage the shit hand we’ve been dealt.
If we’re lucky, we can both come out ahead.
And it seems like she’s cleared half her plate before I’ve had three bites.
Her eyes do that fluttery thing again with every mouthful, and she’s not moving like the walking dead anymore.
All I see—all I try like hell to avoid looking at—is a bright-eyed young woman who tries to chase my mind into the gutter for the next ten minutes.
I’d say this breakfast was a mistake, if only she didn’t enjoy it so much. It’s not her fault I can’t get my mind back on a purer wavelength, either.
Again, what the actual fuck is wrong with me?
I stuff my mouth with my eggs, bacon, toast, coffee, the works. Satisfying, but it’s not the medicine I need.
Five-star food doesn’t satisfy the raging, ridiculous hard-on pulling at my shorts.
The second I’m done eating, I need an excuse to throw myself under an ice-cold shower.
“I don’t remember you cooking much when Gramps was around,” she says after she’s slayed her inner hangry.
“Hardly got a chance. He’d insist on taking the helm when the chef wasn’t around. I still dream about his lobster bakes on the beach.”
“Oh yeah! Haven’t had any seafood that good in years. Nothing in Boston comes close. If you added some shredded lobster to these, I think I’d die happy.” She shrugs, smiling and piling more eggs on her toast.
Noted.
The girl’s got curves, but she’s lean enough. Looks like she’d be no stranger to the runway with that aristocratic Blackthorn bone structure that seems to run in the family and legs for days.
I’m stunned to see how much she puts away. I thought I’d piled her plate too high.
“I’ll make you a sunrise person yet,” I say.
