Page 45 of After All

Her nipples poked against the soft, thin cotton of her shirt, a strip of bare belly showed below the top, and the waistband of her shorts clung to her curves of her hips, ready to slip down at any moment.

She was the personification of sex and breakfast. Two of Scott’s favorite things.

“Um, you’re not dressed,” she finally said.

“You either.”

She looked down. “I’m…dressed.” She looked back up at him, then down at his lap. “Oh.” Then she set the spatula down and headed for the bedroom. “Be right back.”

He thought about grabbing her as she went past, but she was too quick and, interestingly, made a point of taking a wide path around him.

Okay, so something was up. He eased himself into the nearest chair, stretching his leg out under the table.

She was back in two minutes and went directly to the food and flipped things and scooped things and plated things, not missing a beat. But now she wore another pair of leggings, blue ones with what looked like cupcakes on them, and a zippered hoodie.

He frowned. She still looked hot—and smelled like pancakes—but now she was more covered up. He wasn’t sure what to do with that. Mostly because Peyton typically was trying touncoverwhen they were together.

“Here you go,” she said, avoiding eye contact as she set a huge plate of food down in front of him.

“Thanks.” Again, he thought about grabbing her, but she was already back across the kitchen, pouring him milk and coffee.

He was ready for her, though, when she set those down. He hooked an arm around her waist as she started to turn away and pulled her up against his side.

She let out a shaky breath.

“What are you doing?” he asked. She wouldn’t look at him. She didn’t try to push away from him either, but she was holding herself stiffly. He settled his palm on the curve of her hip.

“I’m just making breakfast.”

“Breakfast could be cold cereal and toast.”

“You don’t like pancakes?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said with a laugh. “I love pancakes. And bacon. And scrambled eggs.”

“Well, then…” She shrugged. “Breakfast.”

“But this is breakfast that takes a lot more time and effort,” he pressed. “If your job is just to keep me alive until I heal, the cereal would have worked.” Why did he so want to hear her admit that she’d gone above and beyond here? He wasn’t sure exactly, but something was definitely compelling him to push.

“I just…thought I’d do something nice,” she said.

She wasn’t looking at him, but Scott noticed the most astonishing thing when he looked up into her face. She seemed embarrassed. Or unsure. That was more accurate. She seemed almost—dare he even think it?—shyabout making him a big breakfast.

And if hard nipples and spatulas got him going in the morning, then Peyton Wells acting shy about something made him want to spread her out on the table, cover her with pancake syrup and devour her from head to toe.

He squeezed her hip and tried to get himself under control. Ravishing a woman for being shy around him was probably not totally cool. “That’s really sweet,” he said.

“You’re welcome.”

“Sweet isn’t really a word that applies to you often, Trouble,” he said huskily. He still wanted her to admit that she’d done something special here. For him. And he knew she would take the comment as he’d meant it—affectionately. She triednotto be sweet, tried not to be toonice. Or predictable. Or any number of other words.But there were glimmers of the sweetness at times. A part of Scott could see it even when she was swinging a bat at a guy’s headlights, because she was standing up for someone she loved.

Derek had been right last night. She did take care of her people. And she was taking care of Scott right now. Not just by helping him out with the basics because of his injury, but beyond that. He was one of her people. He really fucking liked that. But he also really wanted to hear her admit it.

“Well, I decided to show you that I can do more than cause you trouble,” she said. Her voice was soft.

He swallowed and worked on not running his hand up under her hoodie. She probably still had that pajama top on. She hadn’t been gone long enough to do more than pull these clothes on over the tiny top and shorts.

Instead, he turned his head and put his face against her stomach, breathing deep. She smelled like Peyton—the combo of her body wash and detergent that he was so used to—but she also smelled like pancakes and bacon and sugar and cinnamon and all kinds of delicious things. She was holding her breath as he rubbed his face back and forth, dragging the material of her hoodie across her skin.

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