Page 31 of Cain

“Ah, no one. I mean, not no one, obviously. It’s just me. Do you want a drink?”

“You have whiskey?”

“I think,” I say, setting down the package of ribeyes I just took out of the fridge, ready to head over to the bar cart to check before Cain holds up his hand.

“I got it, babe. It’s the least I can do since you’re cooking for me.” He pours three fingers worth of whiskey for himself and a glass of wine for me without even asking.

“Thank you,” I say, somewhat surprised, while taking the wine. I give him a questioning look because how did he know this is what I wanted?

“The bottle looked like you had set it out to drink soon.” I hate how observant he is because, damn if he isn’t right. “So, back to your place, you’re really doing all of this by yourself?”

Nodding my head, I say, “Yeah. I know it seems overly ambitious, and sometimes I want to pull my hair out and sell the place, but when one thing comes together, it makes it all worth it. Plus, when I’m done, I can say I did all the renovations myself. Cool, right?”

“Yeah, hellcat. That’s pretty fucking cool. If you ever need any help, let me know,” he says before taking a swig of his whiskey.

“I actually could use a recommendation for an electrician,” I tell him, turning my attention back to seasoning the steaks. “Sometimes the light switches turn on, and sometimes they don’t. I tried watching some electrical videos on how to fix it, but I’m kind of scared of electrocuting myself.”

“Brock. He used to do a lot of electrical work in the Army. I’ll talk to him tomorrow about stopping by.”

“That would be great! Do you know what he charges?”

“Hellcat, you aren’t paying him shit. If he needs to buy anything, the club will do it. We need to move some cash around anyway.”

“It’ll be a cold day in hell before you start paying for my stuff like that. I don’t care if you need to make it look like you have money going somewhere. I said I’d help you guys with whatever you need, but I’m paying for what needs to be done here.”

“We’ll talk about it later,” he responds, almost like he’s just letting me entertain the idea.

“Um… no, we won’t. Are you even listening to me?” I ask as he gets up off his bar stool and comes up from behind, wrapping his arms around me.

“Nope. I tune you out when you start spewing bullshit,” he rumbles in my ear.

His scent surrounds me, almost overpowering the garlic-infused oil I poured into the cast iron skillet. The smell of oak mixed with a hint of lavender invades my nose, wrapping me in comfort. All of my senses are heightened as his beard brushes against my neck, and his breath tickles my ear.

“Well, that’s rude.” I’m starting to lose my train of thought. I was getting mad at him. Why was I getting mad at him?

Oh, yeah.

“We’re not talking about this later. We’re going to talk about this now,” I reply while preparing the asparagus for the pan.

His deep sigh whispers across my neck as he pulls away. “Alright, little hellcat. We’ll talk about it now.”

I can’t help but feel anxious as he walks over to grab the open bottle of wine and a fifth of whiskey, bringing them to the island and topping off our drinks.

“I was a dick earlier. I had a lot to think about, and it messed with my head. I apologize. It’s not an excuse to treat you like you don’t exist. I won’t do it again.”

Hold, please, while I pick my jaw up off the floor. Two apologies in the same week? Maybe Hell really has frozen over.

“I like that you didn’t just lie down and take it. But, if you ever leave me stranded somewhere, making me ride bitch on the back of a brother's bike again, I’m going to take you over my knee and spank that ass ‘till you’re just about to come. Then I’m going to stop and not let you touch that pretty pussy until I say. Got me?”

You see, the thing about me is that when someone gets an attitude with me, I naturally have to match that, if not top it. Challenge accepted. “No, I don’t ‘got you,’” I say as I throw my hands up, using air quotes. “If you’re being a dick, I have every right to not stay, especially if you refuse to talk to me and abandon me.”

“I just said I won’t do it again,” he says, jaw clenched.

“We’ll see,” I snap before turning back to the stove to check on the potatoes. Seeing that they’re done, I drain and return to the pot to get the excess water out. That’s the trick to the perfect mashed potatoes—that and using a potato ricer. Trust me—it’s a game-changer. Lump-free every time.

“Woman,” he growls, trying to demand my attention.

“Don’t ‘woman’ me, Cain. I don’t even get what you want from me. You’re hot one second and cold the next. And honestly, it’s exhausting. I get you’re not the relationship guy, so why are you even here?”

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