Page 48 of Her Remarkable Protector

He spots me instantly, tilting his head like a hawk catching a clueless rabbit. Caught gawking, I pretend to inspect a fascinating spot on the floor. This is his fault. Who wears a singlet and shorts, looking like an ancient god decided to moonlight as a personal trainer?

It’s almost unfair—the way his shoulders flex as he wipes his face with a towel, the faint sheen on his arms catching the light just right. And those thighs…Shame on me. But seriously, they’re like tree trunks wrapped in sin. Sure, he lifts weights, but I’d bet my coffee budget they’re equally good at… lifting spirits.

If he told me he was the poster boy for ‘Thighs and Lies Monthly’ I’d ask for a subscription.

“Morning!” he greets.

His pushed-to-the-limit voice should blend with the rhythmic slide of the treadmill belt, but somehow my ears latch onto it. It stirs up thoughts it shouldn’t—bed, sex, orgasm.

“You look like a horse hauling a carriage ridden by Marcus Aurelius,” I blurt.

He raises an eyebrow, then glances at himself in the mirror. “Do I?” He smirks, stepping off the machine. “And you look like someone who’s had a fine sleep.”

I narrow my eyes at him, wordlessly reminding him exactly who’s to blame for that. His grin widens, and he lets out a few post-run huffs before grabbing a water bottle and taking a long sip. The way his throat moves—yeah, focus, Honor.

“Maybe I should make breakfast, you know, to replenish all that energy you just burned?” I offer, figuring it’s high time I contribute.

“Too late, my dear. Already beat you to it,” he says, a glint in his eye as he effortlessly throws out ‘my dear.’ I decide to let it slide—for now.

“Oh?” I try not to sound too impressed.

He motions me to follow him to the kitchen, and there they are—pancakes, neatly covered, waiting on the counter like a gift from the breakfast gods. My earlier thought flashes back.

“Damn, my guardian angel delivers,” I mutter under my breath.

Maybe the smell of those hidden morning discs had subconsciously planted the idea of pancakes in my mind—you know, the way subtle things in your environment nudge you toward a conclusion. No psychic powers at play here.

“Did you say something?” he asks, grabbing a bowl of berries and setting them beside the stack.

“Nope.”

He doesn’t press, instead asking, “Syrup or honey?”

“Honey,” I say quickly.

“Honey it is,” he replies, his voice dipping just enough to make me wonder if the word is suddenly loaded. Of course, he doesn’t stop there—he even pours me a glass of orange juice to round it all out.

I glance at him, equal parts guilty and grudgingly impressed. “Thanks, Chase.”

He grins, like making pancakes is just part of his superhero repertoire. “Don’t mention it.”

I sip the orange juice, savoring the sweetness as Chase disappears into the shower.

I take a bite of the pancake. My God! Lucky for me he’s not here, or he’d be soaking up my astonishment like honey sinking into the cake.

Not long after, Chase reappears, freshly showered, dressed in a shirt and pants, and smelling like a god from Olympus—whatever that’s supposed to smell like. Honestly, though, it’s perfect: subtle, yet unmistakably masculine.

He sits across me, slapping a stack of pancakes onto his plate before digging in. “How is it?” he asks with a nod toward my plate.

“Not bad. Your own batter?” I ask, arching a brow.

He smirks. “Do I look like the kind of guy who settles for supermarket pre-mades?”

I squint at him, playing along. “You mean, the kind of guy who buys a fancy box mix and calls it gourmet?”

His smirk falters just enough to give him away. “Well… it’s pre-made batter, but from a specialty shop.”

I snort, pointing my fork at him. “So basically, you outsourced your culinary expertise.”

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