Page 113 of Coach
And his bacon was as firm and crisp as it got.
My mouth went dry.
And also . . . how long had I been in the bathroom?
And whatthe hell did it mean that he went to all this trouble—for me?
I tried to say something clever.
Instead, what came out was, “Aren’t you afraid hot bacon grease will pop your wiener?”
The words just happened.
Shane froze, tongs halfway to the plate. For a beat, he didn’t move. Then a deep, gravelly laugh rumbled out of him, shaking his whole body and clenching his abs in a most inappropriate breakfast sort of way.
He glanced up, eyes bright with amusement. “You’re ridiculous, you know that, right,” he said, chuckling as he grabbed a dish towel and hung it on his hard cock like it was some sort of drying rack.
I leaned against the doorframe, grinning, and tried not to stammer. “I . . . uh . . . I’m just saying, there are risks to cooking in the buff. But wow—this spread . . .” I gestured to the island.
It was overwhelming.
Perfectly crisped bacon.
A stack of pancakes.
Fluffy scrambled eggs.
Cut fruit arranged like a magazine shoot.
Fresh coffee already poured into two heavy, hand-crafted mugs that I’d bet anything he’d made himself.
Even homemade bread sat on a wooden board, steam still rising from it.
I blinked.
“How long was I in there?” I asked, voice softening without meaning to.
“Long enough.” Shane shrugged, still casual, still maddeningly gorgeous even wearing a dish towel for dick-cover. “Figured I’d give you something decent after last night.”
Something squeezed tighter in my chest.
He didn’t have to do this, didn’t owe me a damn thing, certainly not a Michelin-level breakfast.
And yet—he had.
Because . . . he wanted to. Hechoseto.
I pushed off the doorframe, moving closer, unsure what to do with my hands. “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”
Shane met my gaze, no hint of hesitation. “All good.” His voice dropped, steady and sure. “You need to keep up your strength.”
“Oh?” My mouth quirked as my bushy brows rose.
Shane didn’t miss a beat. “By the time I’m done with you, you’re gonna walk funny and need an IV to recover. Now, come on before this gets cold. How do you like your coffee?”
And just like that, every ounce of nervous flutterin my stomach turned molten.
“Uh . . . right . . . coffee . . . cream so it looks like a cheap apartment wall and two Splendas.” I swallowed hard, sliding onto one of the stools at the island, trying not to stare too openly. “You’re gonna ruin me, you know.”
