Page 116 of Overcast

A deep chuckle rumbles from my chest. “What else did you sneak?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“I hate surprises.”

She shrugs, flipping over more bacon. “Life sucks, doesn’t it?”

Right.

“Sometimes,” I deadpan.

“But not—” She looks over at me, her pink lips curving. “—if you have pancakes.”

I swear to God I could get used to sitting here with her barefoot on my tiled floors. I could listen to her talk all fucking day about shit I don’t care about just to hear her speak to me without any fear in her tone. I can imagine her here, in this house, making breakfast and in my bed with her hair splayed all over my arm.

In a perfect world.

But we don’t live in one of those, do we? And I didn’t court her and win Stormi over with my charm or my dick. I stole her from her life, her home, and her present for the moment.

Stormi continues her work on making breakfast, opening up the plastic container of blueberries, and doing her thing.

This woman doesn’t understand how her innocent look makes men want to conquer it. Take hold of it and manipulate it to fit their specific needs and desires. She’s like a walking and talking piece of clay that can be molded into the perfect sexual fantasy.

And some might just want to protect her from the evils of the world because they don’t want her to suffer through them.

Them being me.

She hits the whisk along the edge of the rim of the bowl, getting all the excess batter off. “What were you doing outside?”

“Observing your escape plan.” She freezes before her shoulders start to tense. Slowly she turns back around to face me. “You owe me a new tree.”

Her face crunches. “A tree?”

“You broke a branch.”

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “You owe me an apology.”

“For?” My brow perks, and she continues making breakfast.

“Being a jerk yesterday.”

“I’m always a jerk.”

“Can we keep it down to a minimum?” She asks. “I’m getting whiplash from it.” I scoff through my nose but can’t help the rumble in my chest as she pours her batter onto the skillet she has ready.

“You’re not the only one getting spun around, sweetheart,” I convey.

“How so?”

“Because you still haven’t told me who Bianca is.” She drops the spatula into the bowl but doesn’t face me this time.

She waits.

Waits for me to speak. Ask questions. Admit that I need to take care of this before it eats me alive, and I won’t be able to protect Reagan and her family.

That I need to safeguard her.

That I want to. I owe it to her.

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