Page 19 of Our Elliana

“We’re not staying with you in that pussy pink room of yours?” Jackson asks in the cadence of a man all too willing to thread my needle for a second time. And probably a third and a fourth.

But since that is not on the agenda at this late hour, and it’s time for me to establish my boundaries, I allow myself a wide grin as I shoot him down.

“No. You’ll have your own separate accommodations. I’ll let you know if and when I want you back in there with me,” I carelessly wave a hand toward my room.

My soak in the tub refreshed me, but I’m still looking forward to catching some shuteye. They all must need that, too, since there’s no further discussion. Like billiard balls, they roll into the guestrooms I’ve set aside for them—the spaces pretty much identical—and I leave them to check out the attached ensuites and closets they’ll all have.

Then, I go to the master bedroom. I would’ve thought insomnia would strike since there are basically three unfamiliar males in my house with me, all within mere steps down the hallway. But maybe due to all the “exercise” I shared with them, I drift off as soon as my head hits the pillow.

The subsequent morning I’m awakened by the scent of bacon and something that smells buttery. I had a grocery delivery yesterday, so I know there’s food in the house, even if I don’t enjoy making it.

Well, unless it’s a dessert. That I can get behind because I don’t mind the effort of baking every once in a while. Also, a have a sweet tooth. But cooking two or three squares for myself every single day?

Not a fan.

Getting dressed in some clingy white yoga pants that hit just below the knee and a loose heather blue t-shirt that dips off one shoulder, I follow my nose.

Tristan is there in my kitchen, appearing far more at home there than I do.

“Good morning,” I greet him, and he casts me a brief glance before returning to what he’s doing.

“Morning. I’m hoping that since these are the ingredients you keep in your fridge you enjoy what I’m preparing.”

I breathe in another whiff of savory goodness as I sit at the dining room table. I love this piece of furniture. It’s modern and industrial with its two-inch thick glass top and shiny steel teeter-totter-like foundation. Sadly, I rarely use it. Maybe now that’ll change.

“If it tastes like it smells, it’ll be golden.”

“It does,” he tells me with all the confidence of a professional chef when Noah appears. He says nothing, however. Instead, he’s observant, taking in the scene.

“Have a seat, kid,” Tristan tells him, and after waiting for my nod, Noah does.

Okay, that’s a bit over the top. Yes, I hired these guys, and yes, I want them to provide the services I’m paying them to give me. But I’d never insist that they turn into a group of automatons blindly doing my bidding. Except occasionally in the bedroom.

I’m figuring out how to nip Noah’s guarded obedience in the bud, when Jackson saunters in, wearing shorts that hang dangerously low and an open sleeveless button-down.

Damn.

I don’t know where Elegance gets its recruits, but if I didn’t know better, I’d swear these men were manufactured rather than born.

Tristan brings over a pot of what smells like freshly brewed coffee—nectar of the gods—and sets it on a decorative silicon trivet at the center of the table. Next, he delivers the plates of food, and I’m ready to squeal about what he’s prepared. There’s bacon all right, but with it is poached eggs laying on a bed of rice with some cherry tomatoes he’s somehow sliced into roses.

It’s like art.

“Jesus, Tristan, this is a masterpiece. It’s almost too pretty to eat.”

A ghost of a smile crosses his features as his eyes make fleeting contact with mine. Unlike Jackson, he’s not one to go off at the mouth a lot. Tristan’s much more of a communicating through the windows-to-his-soul type.

I can work with that.

And speaking of eyes, mine take a rolling trip to the back of my skull as I take a bite. Yum. This sampling of my new resident chef’s cooking is better than any brunch I’ve ever attended, and I’ve attended more than a few. I take a second bite and groan with contentment. That gets all the guys’ attention. Jackson even ceases his noshing to rub his hands together.

“So, how we gonna handle this?”

“Handle what?” I ask him. “Breakfast? Tristan has it well in hand.”

“I’d like to take you in my hands.” He makes a squeezing motion with each hand as if feeling up my imaginary ass, waggling his eyebrows. “You know you won’t be sorry.”

Jesus, Jackson’s a ham.

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