Page 41 of Worth Every Risk

Glaring at me, she picks up the leftover eggs, still safely in their box, as if she means to continue exactly what she was doing before I interrupted her, but then her eyes slide from my face to my egg-splattered chest, her mouth drops open, and she promptly drops the box of eggs to the floor, right at our feet.

“Jesus, Aries.”

“Jesus, me? Jesus, you.” She’s still panting, and obviously unnerved. “What were you doing? Sitting in the dark like a perv?”

I’m not exactly calm myself, but my voice is level when I say, “My house, Aries. I can sit where I want. You have a kitchen upstairs.”

“No eggs up there,” she murmurs, with another glance at my chest.

“None here either,” I say, gesturing to my chest and the mess on the floor. “Have you been drinking?”

“A bit. Not a crime, is it?” She eyes me like she can’t work out whether I’m angry or not. I’m not sure if I am. Under her assessing gaze, everything feels tangled inside my ribcage.

“No,” I concede. “But if you’re going to smash every egg in the house, it might be.”

She laughs, and all trace of her annoyance vanishes, blasting away any trace of my own at the same time, like sunlight breaking through clouds. “I’m so sorry. I’ll replace the eggs.” She crouches to the floor, trying to sweep the eggs back into the cardboard box. Her fingers are dripping with the stuff.

I kneel to help, the two of us crouching in the dark, shadows being cast by the light of the candle flitting around us. We gather the shells back into the box and scoop up whatever we can of the mess.

“Good thing the lights aren’t on. I’d see right up your boxers,” she teases, nodding at where I’m crouched.

I stifle a snort. “Did no one teach you not to say whatever the fuck is on your mind?” I say as I stand.

She shrugs and throws the shells and the box in the bin. “Just saying. Crouching in boxers isn’t safe.”

“For whom?”

She blinks twice. It’s hard to tell with the flickering candle as our only light, but I think she’s blushing. “People.”

She turns away to wash her hands before she grabs a cloth from the sink and begins to wipe the floor. When she’s done, she rinses the cloth and leaves it on the side of the sink, and then she gets a clean one, which she wets and throws at me. I only see it coming at the last second and grab it in one hand.

“What the fuck?”

“Clean yourself,” she instructs, nodding at my chest. I’d almost forgotten about the mess on me. I wipe myself down as she watches. It’s fucking weird, whatever is happening right now, me rubbing a cloth over my bare torso and Aries glued to thespectacle. I want to take a shower, but I haven’t seen this woman for a week and I don’t want to leave.

The realisation that I want to stay here with Aries is a slow fucking creep that strangles something in my chest:I’m enjoying being near her.

As I’m wiping away the last of the raw egg, I notice the eggs she’s already cracked in the bowl. She’s too tipsy to realise there are any left. I tip my head at them. “What were you making?”

“Cheese omelet. I’ve had a lot of wine. Eggs and cheese are great for absorbing it.”

I grab the bowl and get a frying pan out of the cupboard.

She stares. “What are you doing?”

“Making your midnight feast.”

“Oh, no. Please, you don’t have to do that.”

“I know. But you’re drunk and if you lose these eggs”—I hold up the bowl—“then we’re out entirely and you’ll have to wait until morning, and by then it’ll be too late.” I point at a stool. “Sit. This will only take a minute.”

She does as I ask, propping her elbows on the counter. I feel her gaze on me like a river of fucking fire as I try to focus on the simplest of tasks—making an omelet. I grate the cheese and add it to the mixture. After a few minutes, she speaks. “Hold up.”

I glance at her. “Yeah?”

She rubs her eyes with both fists. “Am I dreaming or is my boss half-naked in the kitchen, cooking for me in the middle of the night? I must have had way too much to drink because this can’t be real.”

I chuckle as I flip the omelet, turn it up onto a plate and push it across to her, along with some cutlery from the drawer. “Not a dream. Enjoy.”

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