Page 30 of Sire
“It’s six in the morning.” My stomach growls with me, “I’m not hungry. Andstopdoing my laundry.”
“It’s just your underwear.” She shrugs. Grabbing a spatula by the stove, she points to a barstool at the island. “Sit. Your eggs are almost ready.”
“If you’re out here, why is your bedroom door closed?”
She looks away.
It’s odd, so I follow my instincts. Pushing her door open, I find her bed made, her room immaculate. Her suitcase is open on top of it, with her clothes neatly packed. She’s even washed the bath towel she used and left it folded on the closet shelf.
I storm back her way. “Why is all your shit packed? You going somewhere?”
She wears an innocent face. “No, I just never unpacked.”
“Why?”
“Lesson learned the hard way. Several times.”
It never ends with her, the falling I feel. “You can unpack. I won’t make you leave. This is your home now.”
“It is until I make you mad.”
“Too late. I’ve been royally fucking fuming since you returned, but you don’t see me kicking you out because you won’t tell me who’s after you.”
“Yeah.” She waves her spatula at the gun in my hand. “I won’t tell you because you’ll go all gangster on him.”
“Who?” I seethe, and she rolls her eyes.
“Like I’ll crack like an egg. Speaking of...” She points at the barstool again. “Sit or yours will get cold.”
I don’t know what it is, but I’m drawn her way. I take aseat and set my gun down, waiting for my pulse to lower, but it won’t.
No, everything rises around her, so I’m thankful to hide it under the marble countertop.
First, her scrambled eggs are the best I’ve ever tasted. Then, she hits me with bacon that I never eat, so I devour seven pieces. Finally, she puts a nail in my culinary coffin with a warm muffin, a pat of butter melting where she sliced it open. It goes great with the perfect cup of coffee she brewed for me, too.
“Zucchini muffins with shredded carrots and organic, dark chocolate chips,” she shares with a bite of muffin in her mouth. “That’s healthy, right?”
“It’s fucking delicious.” I spew crumbs before using the napkin she hands to me. “Nannie’s recipe?”
“Yeah, but I added the carrots for you.” She peers at my loaded gun on the island, not afraid, curious.
“Nannie teach you to shoot?”
“No. She kept a loaded shotgun but hated it.”
“So, who taught you?” Taking my empty plate, she won’t look at me. “Wren.” Gently, I grab her wrist. “Whotaught you how to shoot?”
“What makes you think I can shoot?”
The way her skin is so goddamn soft in my grasp sends a hot jolt through me.
“You said you could.” So, I let her go. Sliding my gun her way, I command, “Clear the round in the chamber, release the clip, then reload it.” Her eyes narrow. “Show me you know how to handle a weapon, and I’ll answer a question.”
Lightning fast, she sets my plate down and grabs the gun. I’ve never been so aroused in my life watching a woman handle a weapon as well as she wields a spatula, too.
Holy hell, she’s fast, deft, and smiling as her hands pop the round out of the chamber, her trigger finger releasing theclip. Checking it, she slams it back in before racking a fresh round and setting the ready weapon before me.
“There.” She smiles. “Now … how did you lose your virginity?”
