Page 57 of Savage Beauty

Out the back windows on the ground floor, the ocean twinkles bright slivers of yellow and white. Rolls of water lap the sand. There are no waves in this protected cove. It feels almost like you could walk from the sand onto the sea and continue walking all the way to the horizon. Which is silly; obviously, you can’t.

“Coffee?” Max asks, causing me to blink away the bright sun and focus on him. He’s bare-chested and wearing worn jeans that are slung low on his hips. The faded denim is one sexy notch above the worn cargos he’s been wearing. And those bare feet on the tile floor?—

“How do you take your coffee?”

“Ah, sugar.”

“No cream?”

“Well, do we have almond milk?”

“No. I used it all in this protein shake, which I want you to drink.” He pushes forward a glass with a thick, greenish brown liquid in it.Ew. “Drink it. Your body needs it. High calorie, high protein.”

“Why do you say my body needs it?” I’m not sick.

“After the night we had, you need replenishment.” There’s a sizzling sound and a burning scent. He holds a spatula out and turns his attention to a pan on the stove. “Plus, you need to gain some weight.”

I sniff the liquid. Then glance at the black coffee. Then dip my tongue into the greenish-brown shake. It’s sweet. “It’s not bad.” But that color. And it’s a little grainy. “What did you put in here?”

“Mango. Bananas. Kale. Lots of protein powder.”

“Vegan protein powder?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, it is vegan.”

My stomach rumbles as if to yell that yes, it is starving. I loop my tongue into the goop, but it’s like dipping my tongue into cold sand.

He scoops a ton of slimy eggs onto a plate.Ew.

“This is a scrambler. Are you vegan?”

“Sometimes.”

“What does that mean? If you’re in the mood?”

“No. If I like it and it’s not gross.”

He looks at me like I’m not making sense. It’s been a long time since I had to spar with anyone over my food choices.

“Do you eat eggs?”

“If they’re not slimy.” The ones he made have a slightly yellow runny stream. I am not eating those.

“Well, I also made blueberry oatmeal. I noticed you hadn’t eaten meat that I’ve seen, so in case you were vegetarian…” He opens the oven and removes a bowl of mush with blueberries sprinkled across the top. “What’s that face?”

“No one makes food for me.”

“Why?”

“Well, I’m particular with food.”

“Yes.” He pushes the bowl of light brown mush closer to me, along with a small ceramic dish filled with an amber liquid that looks a lot like syrup. My gaze travels from his golden, oh-so-happy trail up his tight abdomen to his plentiful pecs, and I glimpse a smirk. A really sexy smirk.

“If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to be tempted to bend you over the kitchen table, and I can’t do that because you need to eat.”

As if my stomach can hear him, it growls, and this time, it’s so loud Max hears it, and he chuckles. “Eat. I was going to surprise you with breakfast in bed, but you’re here.”

The stool legs scrape the tile as I pull it out. Syrup covers the taste of anything. This, I know from experience. It can even make something that’s a little too slimy palatable. And…it works. I can eat this.

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