Page 63 of Play the Game

My brow furrows. I run my hand through my messy hair and walk farther into the living room, landing at the large opening in the kitchen.

There’s a quick hitch in my breath when I spot her standing there with her back to me. She’s leaning up on her tiptoes, reaching for the plates that are just out of reach. Part of me wants to stand back and see what she plans to do, but I find myself moving forward. I round the island and silently creep up behind her. Her ass, in those tiny little sleep shorts, grazes against the front of my sweatpants. I clench my abs and reach beside her, grabbing onto the plates that she’s desperate for.

Scottie’s shriek slices through the sizzling of bacon, and it takes everything in me to stay impassive. There will not be a reaction coming from me over how I’m just now noticing the perfect shape of her lips. And those smooth legs peeking out from her sleep shorts? Couldn’t care less. Pristine, perky breasts edging the top of her little tank? Nothing to see there.

“Need a hand?” I grunt, scattering every last desire I have from our close proximity.

Scottie’s eyelashes flutter several times before she swallows. The longer we stare at each other with nothing but the sizzling bacon in the background, the more I lose my hold on my irritation from her waking me up with the smell of a freshly cleaned house and breakfast cooking on the stove.

“Ow, shit!” Scottie jumps back, ramming her ass into my dick again.

My stomach drops, but I quickly move her aside and grab the greasy pan from the stovetop and turn the gas off, eliminating the large flame. When I turn back to look at my little arsonist, she’s inspecting her arm. Little red dots appear on her skin.

“Are you trying to burn the house down?” I ask, grabbing the dish towel.

I wet it with cool water and lightly press it against Scottie’s arm, ignoring the tug of her independence. My grip tightens on her bicep as I keep the rag pressed onto her slightly burnt skin.

“No,” she finally answers, looking away. It’s as if she can’t stand the fact that I’m taking care of her arm. “I was just…”

“Making me breakfast?” I raise an eyebrow before removing the rag and inspecting her arm.

She huffs. “Who said this was for you?”

I briefly eye the stack of pancakes off to the side. “Unless you plan to eat your entire body weight in pancakes, I’d say there’s plenty for us to share.”

After seeing that her arm is fine, I let it go and watch her busy herself with pulling the bacon off the pan. With her back to me, she throws a ridiculous statement over her shoulder. “I was making breakfast for Shutter and myself. Not you.”

I snort while grabbing a plate. With three slabs of bacon and five pancakes stacked on top of one another, I drag a stool out and take a seat. In between each bite of food, I survey the kitchen and the rest of the house.

The math isn’t mathing, and I’m damn good at math.

“Did you sleep?” I shove another bite of food in my mouth while observing her very closely.

Despite the dark bags underneath her eyes and messy bun on the top of her head, she still resembles a little ray of sunshine—but now with lack of sleep.

Scottie pauses with the carton of oat milk in her hand.Is she lactose intolerant?Her gaze briefly dips to my bare torso before she mumbles, “Umm…” She shrugs and quickly turns toward the fridge to continue putting away all the ingredients she used.

“You didn’t, did you?” I push again, not letting her get out of answering me. “You cleaned my entire house.” I pause, waiting for some type of reaction from her, but I get nothing. “And you made me breakfast?”

She spins, and I refuse to give her another chance to deny it, because there’s no way she made this for a damn cat.

“Why?” I ask.

“I didn’t do it for you.”

I stand with my empty plate and walk over to the sink. She doesn’t stay next to me. Instead, she rounds the island and sits in the same seat I was just in. “No. I mean, why didn’t you sleep?”

Her mouth opens, and I can’t keep myself from staring at it when I hear her soft voice. “I don’t know. I just…couldn’t sleep.”

Forcing myself to look away, I sigh. “Maybe if you stop being stubborn and sleep in the actual bed, you’d be able to sleep.”

She laughs, and it takes me by surprise. Mid-wash, hands sudsy with soap, I crane my neck to watch the giggle float out of her mouth. “Trust me, it has nothing to do with a bed.”

I arch an eyebrow, expecting more of a response than that.

“Oh, wait. I forgot…you don’t trust me.” Her lips flatten before she takes another bite of food, wrapping her lips around the fork. My mouth waters, and I’m blaming it on the taste of pancakes lingering on my tongue. “I can sleep practically anywhere,” she adds. “I slept on the floor for years before I got a bed.”

I stand there, washing the same dish for far too long, repeating her words in my head.

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