Page 88 of The Pucking Wrong Man

Smack.

Dan’s hand reverberated across Mom’s cheek, and she fell to the floor in front of where I’d been playing with cars while she made dinner, and my red one rolled into her hip.

I took a deep breath, trying to center myself after that unfortunate trip down memory lane. “I like cooking,” I finally said, my voice thankfully even and calm. I left out the “for you” I was thinking.

“You should have let me cook or something,” she said, sounding rattled. Anastasia had sweatpants on over her leotard and she’d pulled her hair back into a ponytail. She was also still holding her bag, so I grabbed it and set it on the counter for her.

“It’s the least I can do after you let me spend the night.”

I resisted the urge to scoff. That would probably offend her.

Over my dead body, was she ever going to cook for me, though. Or clean.

Or do anything for me at all.

Except blow jobs. I decided I would make an exception for those as I got lost on her luscious lips for a moment as she slowly licked her bottom lip.

“Let me make you a plate, baby girl,” I murmured, enjoying the way she blushed.

“Oh, I—” She tried to object, but I’d already grabbed a plate and was stacking literally everything I’d cooked on it.

“There’s no way I can eat all of that,” she giggled.

I savored the sound. I’d been wondering what this place had been missing since I’d moved in.

Her.

It had been missing her.

I led her over to a barstool and set her plate down before helping her onto the seat.

There was a small, amused smile on her face as I fidgeted with her stool until I was sure she was comfortable.

She was thin, overly so. Even for a ballerina, I was pretty sure.

I had the insane urge to pick up the fork and start feeding her, and I had to grab the edges of the counter to stop myself.

“Are you going to eat?” she asked, her fork pausing in the air as she stared at me with concern.

I’d already drank a protein shake with my trainer’s prescribed vitamins ground up in it, but if eating some food meant she would eat...I was up for it.

I filled up a plate and settled down next to her, pretending that I hadn’t shifted the barstools so that our arms were brushing against each other as we moved.

“Oh, do you need something to drink?” I asked standing up suddenly because I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten. “How about some coffee?” Walking over to the counter, I started fiddling with my coffee machine.

When she hadn’t said anything, I glanced over to see she was biting down on her lip shyly.

“I’m good with just water,” she said softly, not sounding like she actually meant it.

I hummed as I finally got the damn thing to work, and the machine hissed as hot liquid poured into the white mug I’d placed underneath it. Then, just to show off, I poured cream and sugar into the drink, making a fancy leaf pattern.

“That’s beautiful,” she mused, as I slid the mug in front of her.

“Not as beautiful as you,” I said, and she snorted because that was a ridiculously corny thing to say.

I was pretty sure she was still swooning though.

“Seriously, you should drink this,” she insisted, pushing it away.

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