Page 13 of Rook

Showered and changed into a fresh white tee and a pair of workout pants.

And, perhaps best of all, he was carrying a large coffee and something on a plate that smelled like potatoes, peppers, and eggs.

My painfully empty stomach let out a grumble loud enough that he had to have heard it.

The little smile he shot me said he did. “I brought you some breakfast. Before Detroit starts making lunch.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost eleven. I had to reheat the quiche, so hopefully it tastes as good as it did fresh.”

“A… quiche? You have a man named Detroit who is cooking quiche at a biker club?”

“Yep. The man missed his calling as a Michelin Star chef.”

As I scooted up against the headboard, Rook came over to put my coffee on the nightstand. I could smell all the caramel goodness wafting over to me before he handed me the plate with the quiche, and I got overwhelmed with the more savory scents.

“Oh, my God.”

“He made it with a potato crust. Everyone decided it’s the only way quiche should be made now.”

“Well, it will be my first time having quiche, so I have nothing to judge it against.” At his surprised look, I shrugged. “Growing up, breakfast was usually some stale cereal and questionable milk.”

I stuck the fork in the cake-like slice of quiche and popped it into my mouth before I could overthink it. I’d admit to anyone that I didn’t exactly have worldly tastes. In my life, a “fancy” meal was some soupy greige-colored boxed pasta mixed with chopped meat.

Honestly, given the shit diet I’d eaten growing up, it was a miracle I didn’t end up with rickets or stunted growth or something.

Luckily, the quiche was a solid foray into fancy food. It was like an omelet, really, just better.

I hadn’t realized the moan had escaped me until I saw Rook’s eyes go a little heated.

“This is amazing. I would pay good money to have your brother cook this for me. Of course, I have no money. So, I will have to keep settling for rest stop waxy egg sandwiches.”

“Not necessarily,” Rook said, gesturing toward the foot of the bed, asking permission to sit.

What was this?

Asking for consent?

That was new to me too.

I nodded, and Rook sat with one leg at an angle on the bed, so he could look at me.

“I’ve been doing some thinking.”

“A man thinking. What a dangerous situation. Have you decided to invade another country? Or, worse yet, start a podcast?”

To that, I got a chuckle, and I had to admit the deep rumble was a lot sexier than I’d been prepared for. Maybe my defenses were just lower than usual thanks to some good sleep and food in my stomach. And him remembering how I liked my coffee. I was pretty sure that was the modern-day equivalent of someone writing you a sonnet or something.

“Well, seeing as a condition of my parole is I have no access to electronics, a podcast is unlikely…”

“Wait, really? But you went in for assault, you said.”

“Yeah, but I may or may not have done some hacking to track down the asshole I eventually beat up.”

“Ah, there it is. I’m assuming you don’t actually abide by that rule.”

“I have a computer at work. The club picked me because of my skills. Nancy just doesn’t need to know about it.”

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