Page 46 of Winning Bid

I frowned. “Is there a diner or something nearby?”

“Uh, the Airbnb people said they’d stock the fridge for us, so hopefully, there is something in there.”

I got an idea. “You stay here, and I will bring you breakfast in bed.”

He smiles. “June, you don’t have to do that. I am capable of?—"

“I know you are. But baby, you’ve been cooking most of our meals for a couple of months now. Let me cook for you.”

His smile grew as he put his hands behind his head. “Alright then. Don’t think anyone has ever brought me breakfast in bed, so I am looking forward to this.”

I beam at him. “Then you keep your pretty little ass right there, and I will hop to it.” I jump out of bed.

He laughs. “If either of us has a pretty little ass, it’s you.”

I drag my pajama bottoms up a bit slower than normal to give him a show. “Can’t we both have them? You have a phenomenal butt.”

“Well, thank you. I work hard on my ass—it’s the engine that powers fucking.”

“Then you’ve done spectacular work, sir, because last night … ” I shudder thinking about it, and blood rushes to my cheeks. “I better go get that breakfast started?—"

“No way. What about last night?”

I lick my lips and take a fortifying breath. “Best. Ever. And I am going because if I don’t go now, I am jumping you.”

“No objections here?—"

“Nope, breakfast!” I announce as I flee the room. If he’s going to give me anything like last night, he will need his strength.

I putter around the kitchen, looking for ingredients. Thankfully, the owners actually did stock it for us. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner ingredients. Color me impressed.

I dig up a buttermilk pancake recipe on my phone because, to my shock, they included buttermilk in their grocery haul. I hope whoever owns this place has a spot in the Florida Keys or Hawaii because I’d like to rent from them again, and I am craving the tropics after all of this cold. Not that I minded it much last night.

I crack an egg into the bowl and just as I start to stir, someone knocks on the front door, and I almost whack the bowl off the counter in surprise. Did that really just happen? I look up and see a shadow at the door. It’s wooden with a frosted glass pine tree in the middle of it, so I can’t see who is there, but they’re big.

Anderson pops out of the bedroom with his lounge pants on, frowning with his eyes on the door. “The fuck?”

“Who knows we’re here?”

“Just the owners. Did you tell anyone?—"

“Of course not. You?”

He shakes his head as he walks to the door.

But I don’t want an intrusion on our perfect escape. If he opens that door, the illusion of freedom is ruined. I hiss, “Don’t open it! They could be dangerous, and there’s no one out here to go to for help.”

“It’s probably just the owner. Maybe they forgot something.” But all the same, he grabs a fireplace poker on his way. He tucks it behind his back as he cracks open the door. “You?”

Fuck. It’s someone we know.

He sets the poker aside, so at least I know they’re not dangerous. But when Anderson opens the door wider, I see I am dead wrong.

Moss darkens our doorstep. Such a short, insignificant word to describe such a hulking, substantial man. He’s white, and I’d guess of Russian descent, but I don’t know. Sometimes when he speaks, his accent is Russian, sometimes it’s Italian, sometimes it’s something else. I’m not sure if it’s an affectation or if that’s truly how he talks. Maybe it’s so he can be an international man of mystery. I’d never ask.

The man scares the panties off me.

He’s huge. Not just tall, but actually huge. Somewhere near six and a half feet with the biggest hands I have ever seen. Bald, but like today, he often wears a skull cap. His black overcoat could be a tent for me. He is heavy, both with muscle and a layer of fat, good for long winters or the energy needed for his work. Given that his work includes fighting, killing, and disposing of bodies, he needs all the energy he can get.

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