Page 32 of Whiteout

Tossing the jeans, along with a low scoop-neck Henley, on the bed beside her, she sighed. “Thank fuck for Kayleigh.”

“Miss Dalton.” Looking rather amused, Derek leaned against the doorway to the bedroom. He snickered. “You’re much too pretty to be using such foul language.”

“And the princess has a potty mouth.”

“Formal now, are we? Does it offend you?”

A smirk on his face, he stepped into the room. “No, but your grandmother would’ve been mortified.”

“How’d you get in here?”

“I’ve been knocking,” Derek explained, coming to stand beside the bed. “I became concerned when you didn’t answer, so I let myself in.”

Odd, I heard nothing. Wait a minute…

“The door was locked.”

“I have the master code for all the keypads.” He pursed his lips with a shrug.

Rolling her eyes, she deadpanned, “That’s reassuring.”

“I’d ask if you’re ready to go down to breakfast, but I can see that you’re not.”

His eyes fixated on her breasts encased in lace of the palest blue, Breanna stood. Not embarrassed in the slightest, she watched him swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, as she pulled tight, faded denim up her thighs. Leaning over the bed, she reached for her shirt.

Strong fingers tightened around her wrist. Dark eyes bored into her own. “What do you think you’re doing, Breanna?”

Tugging her hand from his grasp, Breanna pulled the Henley down over her head and fluffed out her hair. “Now, I’m ready.”

She turned to leave the room.

His fingers catching hers from behind, Derek pulled her back to him. “Not so fast.”

“What?”

He wet his lips, the corner of his mouth slowly ticking up, and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “You’re barefoot.”

God forbid.

“Oh.” She glanced down at her pink-painted toes. “I’ll, uh, just put some shoes on.”

Breakfast was served in the family dining room, where they had dinner the night before. Eggs Benedict. Roasted asparagus. Savory potatoes.

Francie set a carafe of fresh-squeezed orange juice on the table. “I’ll be back with coffee in a minute.”

“You really didn’t have to go to all this trouble. I’m more than good with a bowl of cereal—honest—but thank you.” Sleep outranking sustenance, Breanna skipped breakfast most days, unless a granola bar counted.

“It’s no trouble.” Francie waved off her concern. “Besides, you’re both on your own for lunch—dinner, too. I have to get started on Thanksgiving, but there’s plenty of sandwich fixings in the fridge. Just help yourself.”

“Do you need any help?” Breanna offered. “I’d be happy to.”

“Do you know your way around a kitchen?”

Not really, but how hard could it be? She’d watched her mom cook the turkey a bunch of times. “I know how to make a mean bowl of ramen.”

“You’re a doll to offer, but I’ve got it.” Patting her shoulder, Francie chuckled. “And Mr. Keeler will help me out this afternoon.”

“Oh, and does he know his way around the kitchen?”

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