Page 44 of After All

That last thought got her out of the car and into the house. But her heart was thumping hard as she brushed her teeth and put her pajamas on. She was about to go to bed with Scott Hansen. But real bed. Not sex bed.

She didn’t do sleepovers. She didn’t have guys spend the night and she rarely slept over at their houses. If she did, she didnotcuddle. She liked her space. She didn’t like to share blankets.

But when she slipped into Scott’s room and took in the sight of him fast asleep, blanket kicked to one side, wearing only a pair of boxers, his hair tousled, the scruff on his face, his muscled arms and legs sprawled out across the bed, all she felt was her heart turn over in her chest and the anticipation of being up against that big, hot body. She wanted him, but she also wanted the way he made her feel safe and desired. And not even desired in a physical sense, but in a sense that made it seem he just wanted her with him, all the time, for…whatever.

When she did slide into the small space that was left in the bed, he rolled to his side toward her and settled one big hand on her stomach. It wasn’t cuddling exactly, but it felt possessive, like he’d naturally reached out for her even in his sleep. And then he mumbled, “cookies,” and she grinned.

And yeah, she felt the definite scary-but-I-don’t-think-I-ever-want-to-shake-this feeling that she was finallyhome.

* * *

Scott woke slowly. He rolled to his back, squinting in the sunlight from the window. He flexed his hand. But it, and his bed, was empty beside him. So why did he feel as if he’d been holding on to something?

Then he smelled it. The distinct, oh-baby scent of pancakes.

Peyton was here.

Had she slept in here with him as promised? What time had she come in? Had she worn pajamas? All of those questions tripped through his head and the next thing he knew, he’d rolled and put his face into the pillow next to him.

Sure enough, it smelled like her. Cinnamon and sugar. His favorite.

He smiled. Then he frowned. Peyton Wells had been in his bed, and he hadn’t even awakened for it?

Great.

He started to sit up, but his leg instantly reminded him of why Peyton was here in the first place and why he’d clearly slept later than he ever did. The sun was high and bright through the window. The pain pills had done their job, if part of the goal was him sleeping like the dead.

He was surprised he’d fallen asleep at all. He’d wanted to wait until Peyton had come in. He’d been half worried that she wouldn’t come back at all. But the last thing he remembered was his head hitting the pillow.

Slowly, feeling like he was eighty, he got out of bed and pulled on a pair of sports shorts.

He grabbed his crutch, stopped in the bathroom, and then headed for the kitchen.

And came up short in the doorway. Peyton was still in her pajamas—such that they were. They consisted of a baby-blue spaghetti-strapped tank and a pair of shorts that hung loosely on her hips and barely covered the curve of her ass. They were also light blue and had puffy white sheep all over them. As she reached and bent and stirred and flipped the pancakes, eggs and bacon that she had all going at once, the top pulled up, exposing smooth, firm skin on her back and stomach. The shorts rode high one moment, then low the next, making Scott wonder if they’d slip right off with a twist in just the wrong—or right—direction.

And then, of course, there were the pancakes, bacon and eggs. He had never considered himself a guy whose heart was connected to his stomach. He’d been cooking for himself—and at times, others—for years now. He did not believe a woman’s place was in the kitchen and he was not a caveman. But the sight of Peyton Wells cooking him breakfast after sleeping in his bed, even afternothaving sex in that bed—hell, maybebecausethey hadn’t had sex in that bed—was the most gorgeous sight he’d ever seen. The woman could haveanythingfrom his at this moment. And if that made him a caveman, well…he’d just have to never admit it to anyone.

Especially the girl flipping pancakes at the moment. He knew for a fact she knew self-defense moves that could put him flat on his back. He’d taught her. And she knew how to shoot a gun, swing a baseball bat, and use a can of mace. None of which he’d taught her.

And she had a temper. And a what-the-hell streak a mile and a half wide. And didn’t put up with a lot of shit from anyone.

He could imagine how much he’d hurt if he said something like “damn, baby, you can fry my bacon anytime.”

She might actually fry his bacon.

But that was one of the things he loved about her. There was no guessing.

“’Mornin’, Trouble,” he said, moving farther into the kitchen.

She swung around, spatula in hand, dab of batter on her cheek, and gave him a huge smile. And Scott had to grab for the nearest chair before he fell over. Because he hadn’t even realized that he had a Betty Crocker fantasy, but sure as hell, he was hard as steel at the sight of that spatula.

But then her smile died, and she looked as if she’d just forgotten how to breathe.

Her cheeks flushed, her eyes widened and her mouth opened. Her eyes roamed over him, and Scott felt as if she was actually touching his shoulders, chest, abs and lower.

He opened his mouth to say something—thoughwhat, he had no idea—but just then his eyes made it past her face and the spatula to take in the sight of her from the front.

And holy hell.

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