Page 112 of Coach
That sentence alone baffled my sleep-deprived mind. I wondered if the man could cook. Then again, I’d also learned not to doubt him. He’d surprised me at every turn. Why wouldn’t his ability to excel in the kitchen do the same?
Reluctantly, I shoved myself up and off the bed, made my way into the bathroom, and indeed “freshened up.”
That made me giggle.
In the middle of my mountain man’s bathroom, I giggled.
Which made me giggle more.
Before I knew it, I was snort-laughing, stark naked, doubled over the sink trying to suck in air. The whole thing was ridiculous to the point of preposterous.
And I was loving every minute of it.
“Plating now!” Shane called from the far end of the house.
An image of Shane, all buffed up and naked, wearing nothing but a frilly apron had me gasping for breath. Of course, that wasn’t the case. The brawny man would never wear lace or frills. He’d probably never cook naked, either. He was far too practical for that.
But the mental image was sexy as hell.
“Coming!” I shouted back, immediately regretting my word choice and devolving into yet another fit of Italian-laced giggles.
By the time I left the bathroom, I realized the house had gone quiet.
Too quiet.
I padded barefoot into the hallway, every step pulling me farther from that steamy, dangerous place we’d left behind in the shower. The house unfolded around me, warm and rich with morning light filtering through the big windows. And as I walked, I noticed the pieces, most I’d spotted the night before, but a few I’d missed leaped out:
A narrow console table in the hallway, its legs carved like twisted branches.
A coatrack that looked like it had grown straight out of the floor.
Shelves stacked with books and hand-thrownpottery, each one mounted on a live-edge slab of walnut.
Everything here was built, touched, crafted with care.
Like him.
I slowed without meaning to, my fingertips brushing one curved chair back, a small wooden fox perched on the arm like a secret left just for him.
God. How long had it taken to make all of this?
How long had I been standing in the bathroom, laughing at myself, while this man—this stubborn, quiet, brilliant man—had made breakfast for me?
The thought squeezed at something deep in my chest.
And then I smelled it again.
Bacon.
Coffee.
Something warm and yeasty.
I followed the scent into the kitchen—and stopped dead in the doorway.
Shane stood at the stove, stark naked, plating the last of the bacon like this was a normal, not-at-all-soul-meltingly-sexy way to cook.
He wore no frills, no apron . . . no anything.
