Page 14 of Feral
She takes a step back, refocusing on the work at hand. “Are you always up so early?”
“I didn’t sleep much. Perks of being under medication, I guess.”
Fuck. Me. Is she always so fuckably gorgeous this early in the morning?I watch as she pours the batter into a hot pan with delicate, deft hands that I imagine wrapped around my dick.
“Aren’t you going to ask me anything, Mr. Broussard? You’re just going to sit there watching me?”
She’s so damn pretty, all covered in flour, I can barely take my eyes off her.
“I thought you were asking all the questions, Miss Stone. You’ve turned very silent all of a sudden. Do I scare you that much?”
I have her full attention now and she’s not pleased.
“You know, you’re not the monster that everyone makes you out to be. I figured out that much.”
Her voice is even and I can tell that she’s not lying, which is a good thing.
I hate liars. She flips the pancakes and a minute later plates the first batch, squirting maple syrup over the neat pile while I reach for the unopened packet of cigarettes, wondering what it’ll take to bed this heavenly creature.
Only a fucking miracle.
She pushes the plate my way, a look of pride in her eyes.
“Here, try eating this instead of smoking those damn things. Don’t you know they’re going to kill you?”
I can’t even remember the last time I had a woman make me pancakes for breakfast. Picking up the knife and fork, I indulge her and the first bite is just as delicious as I knew it would be.
“I can’t cook worth a shit,” I confess, in a sudden burst of honesty as ‘All I Wanna Do Is Make Love To You’ comes on.
Hilarious, right?
I crack a smile, my eyes caressing hers and she returns it, stealing my breath away. She is still standing at the kitchen island when she takes a bite of pancake, licking the syrup from her lips.
“It figures,” she mumbles an eternity later in her soft, breathy voice. “All the ingredients were nearing their expiration date. With all this canned food, I was surprised to find you had any eggs. It seems you live on cigarettes and booze.”
“Don’t forget bad choices,” I add, half-joking. I take another bite and my eyes linger on her hands. Clean, short-clipped, unpolished nails. No ring. No visible tattoos. “Any luck with Tom?” I ask, wondering when she’s going to be out the door, vanishing as if it’s all been a dream.
“You know, you’re the strangest man, Mr. Broussard. No, I didn’t have any luck with Tom. My phone’s dead, remember? And frankly, I still cannot believe you don’t own a working phone. I can’t even imagine how you manage around here with no one around.”
I swallow another bite, daring her to ask me all the things that I know are running through her mind since she stepped foot here.
“I have my ways, Miss Stone. I have no need for phones or any of these gadgets people accumulate to broadcast their daily lives. If I need something, I go out and get it. You’d be surprised what a little planning and a nice, long conversation with the right person can get you.”
She chuckles but I don’t blame her. “You? Having a nice, long conversation? With whom? You kicked me out without even letting me tell you what I wanted first.”
We stay quiet for the longest moment, letting the music fill the silence around us before she decides to speak again. “And what about women? I mean, a man has needs.”
She can’t fucking be serious.
“Why are you really here, little girl? Why did you come looking to interview a man like me? I bet there were dozens of other projects you could have chosen.”
“Why did I want to interview a convicted felon? Isn’t it obvious?”
“Is it?” I look her dead in the eye as she swallows another bite.
She puts the dirty plates into the sink, then turns to meet my eyes.
“You’re way too hard on yourself, Mr. Broussard. I don’t pity you.”
