Page 52 of Heartbreaker

Royal

She humsas she stirs the pot, hips swaying, hair having slipped from the holder to skate down her back.

Blond strands spread out on a pillow behind her head while she was naked beneath me.

Falling into her face as I’d fucked her from behind.

Long enough to hold on to when?—

“Can you check and see if the chef left some basil?” she asks absently.

I tear my gaze from her ass, which is encased in a pair of tight jeans. Her feet are bare, her toes painted a pale pink that matches the color of her lips. Ofbothlips?—

“Royal?” she prompts.

I shake myself. “Yeah,” I say gruffly as I go to the fridge. But after staring at the contents for near on a minute, I have to admit, “What does basil look like?”

Her giggle is like a fucking ray of sunlight, so bright that I’m nearly blinded.

Or maybe it’s the contact of her body against mine as she nudges me out of the way. “When you said you didn’t cook…”

“I meant I didn’t cook,” I say, my voice more than a little rough. “Briar, my assistant,” I add when Jade’s brows pull together, “is in charge of cooking when I eat food that’s not take out or something frozen my chef left for me to reheat.”

Like the quiche this morning.

“I’m excellent at peeling potatoes,” I add hopefully.

Her lips quirk. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Damn right, you will.”

Another of those giggles I want to taste on my tongue, the bright humor I want to bask in. I’ve been in the shadows for so fucking long…

Pain and numbness. Loneliness but unable to let anyone close, not even my family. A gnawing ache because?—

I grind my teeth together.

Because I lost my purpose.

Fucking pathetic.

I’m rich. Famous. Have so much privilege I’m practically drowning in it. The last thing anyone needs to be concerned about is me being unhappy.

I’m fine.

“I’ll look for the basil,” Jade murmurs and nods to the pot. “You go stir the sauce.”

“On it,” I say, doing just that. “What are you making, anyway?”

“My grandma’s famous—or at least, famous to me, marinara sauce.” She closes the fridge and holds up something green and leafy—that I presume to be basil—up. “We’re not Italian.” A shrug. “But it was one of my favorite things she cooked.”

“What were some of the others?” I ask, genuinely interested in what makes this woman tick.

Music. A farm in Tennessee. Marinara sauce. Coffee.

“Lemon drizzle cake,” she says. “And popcorn balls. Chicken ’n dumplin’s.” A sigh. “The absolute best scalloped potatoes and meatloaf you would have ever tasted.”

“You miss her.”

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