Page 24 of Accidentally Fudging the Beast
Trent, on the other hand, is perfectly at home. He's in a fresh t-shirt and joggers, already rifling through the fridge like this is just another typical morning, instead of the day after he almost died in my arms and then rearranged my entire world (twice).
He pulls out bacon, eggs, and a bag of spinach like he's on autopilot. He glances back at me and grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. For a second, I wonder if I'm dreaming again. But the twinge between my legs quickly reminds me that I have not actually died and gone toheaven.
This is real.
"Scrambled or fried?" he asks.
I blink at him. "What?"
He gestures at the eggs with a whisk, then steps right up behind me and nuzzles my neck, his hands landing on my hips like that's his new favorite spot. "How do you like your eggs, Sunshine?"
I have no idea. His voice is a rasp in my ear. His hands are on me. My brain has officially left the building.
"Uh. Whatever's easiest?" I squeak. I try to step away, but he just follows, his hands glued to my hips. He does not believe in letting go, apparently. Not that I'm complaining. Definitely not.
"Scrambled, then," he decides, releasing me to stomp toward the fancy stove. He moves with military precision, grabbing pans and spatulas and—oh my god—he's even got a little chef's towel slung over his shoulder.
Who is this man? He does not even remotely resemble the hulking giant who bullies other skaters on the ice and tells reporters to fuck off just for fun.
"I was going to make you breakfast," I finally manage to protest. "You almost died yesterday. I should be serving you in bed, or something."
He doesn't even look up from the pan. "If you want to serve me in bed, I'm all for eating you until you're wrung out. But you're not cooking in my kitchen."
The "my kitchen" is said with weird, possessive pride. The "eating you" part makes my stomach do gymnastics.
"Why not?" I demand, trying to sound offended and not…well, turned on.
He turns, lifting an eyebrow. "You almost murdered me with your delicious fucking fudge yesterday. I'm not taking any chances."
"That was one time," I mutter, crossing my arms. "Also, it's not my fault you ate it. It wasn't even for you." That's a lie. That batch was totally for him.
He laughs, tossing a handful of spinach in the pan. "Sit. Drink coffee. I'll handle the rest."
I want to argue, but my legs are still jelly, so I plop onto a barstool at the end of the island and watch him move.
He's so damn efficient. He's got eggs scrambled and bacon sizzling in three minutes flat. He pours two mugs of coffee and brings mine over, setting it right in front of me with a flourish.
I take a sip and almost moan. It's actually perfect.
He leans in, presses a kiss to my temple, then drifts back to the stove. He seems so comfortable, like I'm supposed to be here. Like we're supposed to be doing this.
I have no idea what to do with my hands, so I cradle the coffee and pretend I'm not staring at his ass.
"I hope you're hungry," he says, flipping the bacon.
Starving, actually. Butnot for food.
I pretend to sip my coffee instead of saying that. "You're really good at this."
"Cooking?"
"Everything."
He glances over, catching my gaze. For a second, he's dead serious. "Not everything, Sunshine. Not even close. But you make me want to try."
He means it, I realize. He's trying for me. The idea that someone like him would even want to try for me is too much. I have to look away, focus on the coffee, or the view, or literally anything other than the butterflies dancing the samba in my stomach.
He slides a plate across the counter a few minutes later. Scrambled eggs, bacon, sautéed spinach, and a slice of perfect, golden-brown toast. He even cut the toast in half, diagonally, like a gentleman.
