Page 48 of Mountain Daddy
I will not think about my dad’s best friend’s chest hair during breakfast.
Distracting myself with the task, I make two more batches—one with dark chocolate and blueberries, and the other with milk chocolate and banana slices—all while a package of breakfast sausages cooks in the oven.
Luther comes into the kitchen once, to make another pot of coffee, proving he knows his way around this house, but I pretend I don’t notice.
“Smells good,” Dad calls out as he stands. “I’m gonna hit the little boy’s room before we eat.”
I flip the final pancake. “You have two minutes.”
Dad salutes in my direction, then disappears down the short hallway leading to his room.
Luther stands.
And my heart rate spikes.
I turn and face him fully, shifting back until my butt bumps against the cabinet beside the stove.
I lift my chin. “Rocky.”
His fingers tap against his thighs as he consumes the space between us.
And as soon as he’s close enough, he reaches up and grips my chin.
His front presses against mine, and he shakes his head. “You don’t call me that.”
His fingers feel hot against my skin. “Why not? Didn’t you say most people call you that?”
I don’t know why I’m pushing him. I don’t actually want to call him Rocky.
He shifts closer, leaning more of his weight against me, his free hand reaching around and flattening against my spine. “You aren’t most people, Kendra Doll.”
His words shouldn’t hit so hard.
They shouldn’t mean so much.
We’ve only spent one night together. Didn’t even know who we were with, not in a real-life context. But it’s still the nicest thing anyone has said to me in… a long time.
My body arches into his, and even though I know it’s a bad idea to push this further, I grip his sides. “My dad will be back any moment.”
He moves his hand from my chin to my throat. “We can’t tell him about this.”
“No shit.” I try to huff, but it just comes out breathy as I think about his use of the wordthis.
As incurrent.
Ongoing.
Luther is thinking the same thing I am.
We’re going to do it again.
“Such a—” A squeak in the floorboards interrupts whatever Luther was going to say, and he steps back just as I lift my hands to shove him away.
“Can you take the sausages to the table?” I ask louder than necessary as I quickly spin around and start to remove the final pancakes.
They’re a little more done than I’d usually cook them but not so far gone that I’ll need to explain myself.
Luther opens a drawer on the other side of the stove and takes out a pair of hot mitts, and I move out of the way so he can take the pan of sausages out of the oven.
