Page 83 of The Blame Game

The kitchen was on his right and as he glanced into it, he froze.

Speaking of the devil …

A redheaded woman wearing impossibly short shorts and a tiny tank top lounged on the counter eating yogurt, looking him up and down with a blatant once-over.

“Morning,” she purred, licking her spoon.

“Uh, morning,” Dom managed. “Audra, I presume?”

She gave him a flirty little smile. “The one and only. And you’re Dom, I presume?”

There were probably a lot of men who would have killed to be in his shoes at the moment but her long bare legs and the sultry voice didn’t do a whole lot for Dom when his head was still swimming with the memory of water streaming down Shea’s arms and the sound of his hoarse moan in Dom’s ear.

Or, ever, really.

“I am. Nice to meet you,” Dom said politely. “Mind if I use your kitchen to cook something?”

“Feel free.” She crossed her legs and licked more yogurt off her spoon. “Help yourself to anything you’d like.”

Dom ignored the come-on in favor of pulling eggs and vegetables out of the refrigerator. He fumbled his way around the kitchen in search of utensils, opening drawers and cupboards at random.

He managed to locate everything except for a cutting board until Audra opened a drawer with her bare toes then splayed her knees wide on either side of it.

“It’s in here.” She winked.

“Uh, thank you.”

Dom reached into the drawer hesitantly. He was reasonably sure she was only fucking with him but he didn’t know enough about her to call her out on it so he left it at that.

She was silent as he cooked, though he could feel her gaze on him while he worked.

It wasn’t until he was halfway through cutting the last of the green onion that it occurred to him that she knew his name.

Which meant she likely knew about the arrangement Dom had with Shea. And exactly who he was.

“Are you a hockey fan?” he asked, setting the knife down.

She blinked, as if it wasn’t the question she’d expected. “No. Not particularly.”

“Me either.” He refrained from glancing down at the Fisher Cats logo on his hoodie.

She laughed, loudly and freely. It wasn’t a pretty sound, too brash and unguarded, and he suddenly liked her more.

“So, Dominic Olson,” she said. “What exactly are you doing in my apartment at this hour of the morning?”

“Cooking breakfast, obviously.” He gestured to the whisked eggs in a bowl and the pan heating on the gas stove.

“Obviously.” She smirked. “But aside from that.”

“Oh, just thought I’d shoot my shot with you,” he said, reaching over her to grab some salt and pepper.

“With me?” She looked skeptical.

“Yes, I’m looking for a date.” He heard a door open down the hall, so he drizzled some olive oil in the skillet, then poured the eggs in, sprinkling chopped ham, cheese, mushrooms, and green onion on top. “For a team event.”

“Hey.” Shea stopped behind him, his body radiating heat. “You cooked.”

He sounded dumbfounded.

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