Page 1 of Eternally Devoted

PROLOGUE

“WHY DO YOU THINK I EAT SO MUCH JAM?”

Sterling

2 Years Ago

With a twist, the seal pops and my mouth immediately fills with anticipatory drool. Bringing the jar under my nose, strawberry and rhubarb envelop me as needy bumps emerge down my arms. Beneath my shirt, my nipples harden.

“Sorry, man, I didn’t know you’d want toast,” Dash comments, moving around my kitchen with ease. Well,ourkitchen. He moved in last month, and I’m still getting used to seeing someone so comfortable in my space.

I like it.

Sinking my knife deep into the jar, I scoop out nearly a quarter of the contents, slathering it on a thick piece of toasted sourdough. “No worries.”

In a gray t-shirt, his workout leaving dark splotches on his back and under his arms, Dash shoves a hand through his hair, shiny from dampness. “Damn, now you have me wanting toast even though I have a sandwich packed for lunch.” He nods toward the loaf of sourdough bread covered in brown paper, red-and-white twine in an untied heap on the counter. “Toss one in for me?”

After unwrapping the loaf, I grab a slice and drop it in the toaster before covering the rest with care, tying it off to preserve its freshness. “This bread is phenomenal,” I say around a mouthful of Strawbarb, my favorite.

Dash pushes a spatula through the eggs on the stove, keeping his eyes on me as we talk. Maybe it’s because I’ve lived alone for so long, but the way he makes eye contact when we talk, no matter what he’s doing, warms me. I’d die before I admit that out loud, but it does, dammit.

Beginning the morning with his home-cooked breakfast and our easy conversation is my favorite start to the day.

“Yeah?” Dash plates the eggs, his focus bouncing from the task at hand, to me. “I used the last of my starter and changed the recipe a little since I wasn’t sure where you stand on cracked wheat sourdough.”

Around a mouthful of the best fucking toast and jam, I admit an ill-kept secret. “This may come as a surprise,” I deadpan, “but I haven’t met a carb I don’t love.”

Dash’s dark eyebrows pull together, his edacious gaze coasting over me. I don’t have work for another hour, which means I’m still wearing a wrinkled white t-shirt and flannel pajama pants.

“You’re strong as hell, Sterling,” Dash replies, a pinch between his eyes, his expression bordering on irritated.

I tug at the hem of my t-shirt from habit, self-conscious of the discussion of my body.

“Your carbs turn to pure power.”

His praise warms my cheeks.

Dash is just one of those people—he just has a way about him. He always makes me feel good. A police officer in a small town like Bluebell is a perfect job for him. He will probably boost morale and make people feel good all day. There’s not much crime here so aside from some parking tickets and drunk and disorderlies, he’ll be winking at ladies and kissing babies all day. Bluebell’s gonna love him.

Using the hem of his t-shirt, he swipes his forehead, ridding himself of the last of his workout sweat. He strides toward the kitchenette table, my plate of food in his hand.

Bypassing the trail of dark hair leading into his sweats, the lumps of muscle stretched over his lean belly, and the defined lines that curve his waist, I take the plate, focusing on the eggs like I’m trying to make them levitate with my mind. “Thanks, man, it looks incredible.”So does the food.

I moan around the first bite. Initially when Dash began cooking for me, I held back on theoohsandfucks. But two weeks ago after a long day on the truck, over a bite of very cheesy lasagna, Imoaned. He laughed, so I did, too. I haven’t hidden my reactions since.

And yes, Dash cooks for us.

One thing Dash made clear when he moved in last month was that when we’re both here, he’s cooking. He also never shiesfrom cleaning, bringing in the mail, trimming trees and tending to my (now our) garden while I still mow the lawn, but together, we get groceries.

Never thought having a roommate would bring so much more to my life, but he really has.

About to take another whopping bite of the creamiest scrambled eggs I’ve ever eaten, the screen door hinges squeal, and someone bangs a fist into the front doorframe.

The farmers market was on Saturday, and today is Monday, so I know exactly who it is.

The same beautiful, ethereal, gorgeous Aphrodite that delivers jam to me every Monday. The reason why I have not missed a single Bluebell farmers market.

Dash has been working the last few weekends, but on the next one he has off, he’s going to the farmers market for the first time. He shoos me off to eat my breakfast, rounding the kitchen counter to get to the door, while a niggle of worry slithers through me.

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