Page 12 of The Naughty List
Making a man muffins is the equivalent of saying come see how sweet I taste, big boy.
She’s a mess.
Granted, she’s a lot more knowledgable about the opposite sex than me. But no one’s buttering any muffins. I am going to show Jonah that I can handle everything he thinks I can’t.
I update her on my progress.
I made an extremely productive trip to the adult toy store Saturday night and I spent yesterday compiling data.
Her response comes quickly.
Sore?
Actually, my clit kind of is. I send the laughing emoji andA little. Heading to the lingerie store you recommended later today.
She sends backGood luck.
I send a winky face.
I can do this.
Biting into a muffin, I moan because it’s amazing. The perfect mix of sugary sweetness, lemony tartness, and a melt in your mouth explosion of blueberry goodness.
I got this.
I so got this.
* * *
Jonah’s kitchenis a chef’s wet dream. Granite and stainless steel from floor to ceiling.
After I use my key to let myself into his high-rise apartment, I set the muffins on the counter. My parents’ house is a good twenty-minutes away with traffic, so they aren’t as fresh and warm as they were out of the oven, but they’re still good. Apparently they’re still quite fragrant because Achilles begins mauling me the second he gets a whiff.
“Down, boy,” I command.
“That’s what she said,” Jonah mutters, sauntering into the kitchen wearing nothing but a towel around his waist.
“Good morning to you, too. Want coffee with your muffins?”
This isn’t this first time I’ve seen him like this, but my heart and lungs have no chill.
He nods and I busy myself making his breakfast even though I’m technically only here for the dogs.
Even when I’m not looking, the image of his bare chest is burned behind my retinas.
He’s solid muscle, every inch of him rock hard definition moving rhythmically as he uses a hand towel to dry his hair. He passes close beside me to toss it into the laundry room and I stand stock still.
Focus.
If I get the job as his assistant, seeing him half dressed could be part of my morning routine. I cannot show him an ounce of weakness.
But tearing my eyes away from the masterpiece that is his body is no easy task.
Once I finish his coffee in the French press and hand it over, I fix mine, pouring it over ice and adding lots of sweetened creamer while allowing myself one more indulgent glance.
He checks something on his phone, turning his back to me. Across the width of his shoulders is the infamous X from his name. What it stands for, the world may never know. He turns to sit one of the barstools, and I see the animal tattoos that adorn his chest. He told me once that they are the first ones he rescued on his travels. Wolves, an eagle, a leopard, and a raven. Some tribal symbols from the people he met. Down his arms the wildlife transforms into boxing gloves that I’ve never asked about. On his other shoulder is a shattered American flag, which he told me he got when he found out an issue with his spine wouldn’t allow him to go into the Marine Corps.
Somewhere in the mix of his left sleeve is a compass, a clock, and on his forearm there’s a number—six digits he’s also never mentioned the meaning of. 032513. His left ribcage contains an Irish flag, which I’ve always assumed has to do with his heritage. There are latin words below the X on his back and I Googled them once. They mean ‘son of no one,” and also ‘outsider,’ which broke my heart when I saw the translation. It still breaks my heart a little now.
