Page 4 of Combust (Everyday Heroes 2)
Every part of me wants to find fault with him for being so cavalier, but I can’t. There’s something about the roguish look on his face and dead honesty with me, a woman he’s never met before, that makes him seem almost adorable . . . in a grown man kind of way.
“I’m hungry. You hungry? Let’s go get breakfast. Break bread . . . or in our case, break pancakes.”
I scrunch my nose and study him. The messy brown hair, eyes laden with humor that probably see more than they should, and that body. If I were to base my opinion solely on what his abs look like, well, hell . . . at least I’ll have something good to look at when I get writer’s block.
“Breakfast?”
“Yeah, that stuff you eat in the morning. Fuel for the day. The must-have meal. Breakfast.”
My stomach rumbles at the thought. “Sure. Yeah. You have some, uh”—I let go of where my hand is holding my robe together and point to a smear of red on the side of his face—“lipstick on your cheek.”
“That isn’t the only place I have it.” He flashes me a devilish grin before unapologetically walking out of the family room. “Be ready in ten to leave.”
And I stare after him. Of course I do. My eyes wander over his retreating back and I picture things I shouldn’t be thinking. What he’d look like naked with a strategically placed kiss of lipstick.
Then I groan.
I can’t think like this.
Besides, he said he likes to joke.
He’s probably joking.
Then why can’t I get the visual out of my head?
“Aren’t you going to eat?” She’s been looking at those pancakes like she’s starving but hasn’t made a dent in them.
Her eyes dart to her plate and then back to mine.
“I’m not that hungry.”
Bullshit.
My coffee scalds my tongue, but fuck if it doesn’t taste like heaven . . . and clears the cobwebs from my head that too much whiskey allowed to grow.
“That wasn’t what your stomach was saying in the car.” Not even a smile. Just a blush of her cheeks. Frickin’ women. “Is it that you aren’t hungry or more that you’re afraid I’m going to see you eat?” The quick blink of her eyes says I’ve nailed it on the head. “If that’s the case, it’s going to be pretty miserable having you sit on the couch next to me, starving to death and all.”
She meets the lift of my brow with the clench of her jaw. Still not even a crack of a smile.
“I’m watching what I eat.”
“Why?” I reach forward and help myself to a forkful of her pancakes. There’s no way I’m letting Bertha’s pancakes go to waste. They’re legendary.
“Because I need to.”
“Need to? You women are too harsh on yourselves.”
She opens her mouth and then shuts it as I study her. Raven-colored hair, kind of short, kind of edgy, kind of hot in a rocker girl way. Gray eyes so light they’re almost clear. A set of lips—damn, a set of lips that have blow job written all over them. Her shirt is baggy and earlier her robe covered her, but her body seems normal. No third leg growing out of her hip or anything.
But she’s self-conscious. A bit shy. Very uncomfortable in her own skin.
This isn’t the same woman I’ve seen in pictures in Damon’s house. That girl was full of fire and brimstone and a whole hell of a lot of rebellion.
No doubt the ex-boyfriend did this to her. From what Damon hinted at, it’s been a rough few days for her.
“Do you mind?” I reach my fork out again, and she pushes her plate toward me. I take another bite and smile. “You haven’t lived until you’ve devoured Mama Bertha’s pancakes.” Her eyes watch as I chew her food. “If you get hungry, your fork is right there. Your stomach will thank me.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
