Page 44 of Wanted

She releases a frustrated grunt. “Yes.”

“I didn't ask you to stay here so that you could cook for me.”

“And when I agreed to stay here, I wasn't asking for you to wait on me hand and foot,” she fires back.

A warmth pools in my stomach, and a muscle clenches in my jaw.

The sight of a woman, any woman, standing in my kitchen first thing in the morning cooking me breakfast is unfamiliar, one that's not entirely welcome.

I don't know what to do with the situation I’ve found myself in.

What I do know is that I don't want to fight with her.

Not this morning, not any fucking morning.

I enjoy my peace and quiet, and this isn't it.

With that thought, I drain my hot cup and loudly deposit it on the counter.

“Here.” She turns around with a full plate in her hands. “Eat some breakfast. It's the least I can do.”

“I'm not hungry,” I mutter and stride from the room, jogging down the steps to find my pack of dogs.

The following morning, the smell of bacon cooking wakes me up.

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

I throw the covers off angrily. My feet hit the cold floor, and I'm out of bed in a flash. Without bothering to change, I jog down the steps, pausing at the bottom as a litany of numbers races through my head. My fingers curl into tight fists at the surge of adrenaline coaxing my heart into fight or flight.

“What are you doing?” I growl at the petite woman standing in my kitchen, her back to me, spatula in her hand much the same as yesterday.

I'm surprised at the rumble in my voice she doesn't drop it again.

“What does it look like I'm doing?” she answers without turning around.

“Didn't I tell you yesterday I don't want you cooking for me?”

“Yep.” She still doesn’t bother to turn around and face me.

I cross my arms over the cotton stretched over my chest and scratch the stubble on my left cheek with my thumb. My fingers tingle. A sign the compulsion hasn’t yet left. “And is there a reason you didn't listen?”

Her slim shoulder encased in my navy tee rises before dropping. “I didn't feel like it.”

I ignore what the sight of her in my clothing does to me and focus on her words instead.

“If this is the game we're playing now, we need to put an end to it.”

That finally gets her to turn around. The combination of curiosity and concern on her face makes me wish she didn’t. Not if she’s going to study me with fucking pity.

“I don't know what you're talking about. This isn't a game. I need to eat and so do you and somebody has to make breakfast.”

The logic in her statement continues to piss me off.

“And I told you that I'll take care of it myself.”

“Fine,” she says through gritted teeth. The spatula clatters to the counter. “There's a pot of coffee made unless you don't want to touch that too because I pressed the brew button before you got a chance.”

She has me with that one, and she knows it because what monster would empty a fresh pot of coffee just to make one for themselves?

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