Page 23 of What We Broke

“Do you mind if I change?” he asks.

“Not at all.”

He gives my hip a little squeeze. “I can find something for you too, if you want?”

I look down at my clothes, already imagining what it would feel like to wear something less constricting, but I don’t really want to part with the only armor I have left against him.

“No, that’s okay. I don’t want to give you the wrong idea,” I quip.

He chuckles, and I smile.

“I’ll be back in five. Make yourself at home.”

He didn’t need to tell me twice. I watch him retreat around a corner and then continue my perusal of all the little clues the house has to offer.

If you had told me this family man and the man at the club were one and the same, I would’ve laughed in your face. But now his need to slow us down and dote on me the way he’s been insisting, makes total sense.

It’s obvious he’s a caretaker and provider by nature. These four walls are proof of that.

My feet take me to the kitchen and right in front of his fridge. There are more kid paintings and a dry-erase whiteboard that looks like a worn down to-do list.

“If you can’t tell, I can’t chuck out a single thing she’s created.”

My body startles at the sound of his voice and I turn to face him. “Damn,” I breathe out, mesmerized by the sight of him. “You really look good in anything, don’t you?”

Ignoring the compliment, he grabs me by the waist and guides me to a corner of the kitchen. “Let me make us something to eat. You can ogle me while I do it.”

The man didn’t have to twist my arm to get me to comply.

“Eggs, bacon, and pancakes okay?”

“Perfect,” I reply.

Jesse glides his way around his kitchen, opening the fridge, grabbing ingredients from his pantry, and setting up three pans on his stove. I stand there salivating over him, just as he ordered, because the way his shirt hugs his muscles and his sweatpants hang on his hips have me wanting to get on my knees for him right in the middle of the kitchen.

“How do you want your eggs?” he asks.

I drag my eyes up his body and meet his gaze. “What?”

“Eggs,” he repeats. “How do you like them cooked?”

“Oh. Um, scrambled will do.”

He turns to face the stove and my eyes dart back down to his ass. I could easily sink my teeth into it.

“Have you gotten a good enough look?” he asks, without even looking at me.

“Honestly,” I say, “I’m a little intimidated about how good you’re going to look naked.”

I watch him plate the eggs and the bacon and then face me. He walks to the set of drawers beside me, grabs cutlery, and casually hands me the food, like we do this every day.

“The pancakes are coming,” he says.

I take the plate in one hand and then grab his forearm with the other. He looks down and waits for me, but I don’t know what it is I want to say. Nobody has ever cooked me a meal, not with the intention to just feed me and me only.

“Thank you,” I say, my voice low and reserved.

Brown eyes meet mine and I’m certain he can see right through me. How empty I am and how much more this means to me than he’ll ever know. He raises his arm and I lose my hold on him. His large hand cups my face, his thumb skimming my bottom lip. Leaning in slowly, he presses his mouth to my cheek and then whispers, “You’re welcome.”

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