Page 78 of Resisting Isaac
“And yet, you’re about to. Elena, I don’t want to overstep, but I see you. Krav Maga in the mornings, running a million miles during the week, there was the training camp, now you’re using your off time to block scenes and cook for me. Woman, you cannot live on work alone.”
He shifts, gently nudging me to lie back against the pillow while he gets up. I protest weakly, but he just laughs—low and raspy—and pulls a folded quilt from the armchair.
Then he kneels in front of me.
“Lift,” he murmurs, and I do. His hands are gentle as he tucks the blanket around me.
“You just going to tuck me in like a child?” I blink up at him, confused and full of something I can’t name. “No innuendo about how little sleep there should be at an adult sleepover?”
His smile is slow. “If I took you to bed right now, you’d fall asleep mid-kiss and it would significantly damage my ego.” He pauses, eyes trailing over me in a way that’s stillreverent. “Besides, if I mess this up, I may never get those tamales again.”
I stare at him. “You’re ridiculous.”
He reaches out, gently brushing a strand of hair from my face. “I’m growing on you. Admit it.”
He is. But damn if I’m saying that out loud. “I’ll just catch a quick nap then I’ll head back to my cabin.
“Sure, spitfire.”
I close my eyes.
Then crack one open to see him looking down at me. “You’re giving creeper vibes,” I tell him.
He laughs. Returns his attention to the television. “Sorry. Proceed with the napping.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
elena
Iwake up warm.
Not just under the blanket Isaac wrapped around me last night, but inside. Like something heavy and cold in my chest finally thawed and made room for soft things. Like rest. Like safety. Like him.
The first thing I register is the smell.
Coffee. Bacon.
And then I hear it. A low, off-key hum. The occasional clatter of a pan. Something being chopped on a wooden board with entirely too much enthusiasm for 7:00 a.m.
I push the blanket off and swing my legs over the edge of the couch, stretching.
The floor’s cool beneath my feet as I pad toward the kitchen.
And then I stop. Because holy shit.
Isaac Logan is still shirtless. Wearing only boxer briefs. There’s a spatula in one hand and a cracked egg in the other.
And he’s…whistling.
I lean against the doorway, arms crossed.
“Make breakfast for all your over night guests?”
He doesn’t turn. Just keeps whistling while he plates the bacon.
“Nope,” he says. “Pretty sure this is my first one that involved actual sleep and no sneaking out.”
“I probably should’ve snuck out while it was still dark outside,” I admit, voicing the concern we’ve both ignored.
