Page 16 of Two days, One Pucking Night

“Sit.” I point to the bar stool adjacent, facing the island, and he follows. “Were you on your way out?” Walking around the island, I take hold of the first aid kit and return to him.

Xavier’s legs are spread wide, inviting, giving me unlimited access to him. I clear the skin with a cleansing wipe.

“I was going to meet a friend.”

“A friend?” I snort, knowing he is full of shit. “You were going to get laid,” I state it as a fact rather than a question. I swallow the tiny speck of jealousy that threatens to claw its way up my chest. One, I have no right to even feel. But the image of him with someone else. Holding someone else. Touching someone else. Kissing someone else. Makes me feel ... uneasy.

Lifting his hand, I wipe away the blood and realize the majority of the impact is on his left hand. Taking out the tweezers from the kit, I lightly graze his index finger, looking for any shards of glass that may have lodged themselves in the small cut. Satisfied, I pull out another cleaning wipe and do a final cleanse.

“Is that so?” There is a challenge in his question.

“You’re a little too old to be meeting friends, especially female friends, at this time in the morning.” I cock my head, waiting for him to disagree.

A smile stretches his lips, and the sight makes my chest dance with glee.

“Are you calling me old?”

“We can’t all be young, supple, and able to hold our liquor now, can we?” I place a gauze pad over the exposed wound and wrap it.

“I can handle my liquor.”

I cork my brows.

“Okay, tonight was an exception.” He chuckles lightly.

“Why didn’t you go?”

“It just didn’t feel right,” he says, watching me with an intensity that takes my breath away. “Thank you,” he breathes when I finish.

His fingers linger over my hand, lightly stroking the skin. Something about his touch, the feel of his breath grazing my skin, and the bass in his voice, makes me think of warm, naked skin and hot hands. My body thrums with the need to lean in. Savor him. Then again, it could be because I'm severely dehydrated, hungry, jet-lagged, and trying to navigate the emotional toil of the last two messages I received from Ashleigh Brookes, my mother.

Xavier rises to his feet. “You sit, I’ll clean up.”

“I’ll make us pancakes.” I step out of his hold and whip up fluffy Cassava pancakes. A family recipe consisting of cassava flour topped with palm syrup, caramelized pineapple, and fresh lime.

By the time I’m done making eight pancakes, Xavier has wiped and cleaned the island and counter back to its original state.

“This is so good,” he groans after finishing the six he had set on his plate. “I don’t remember the last time I had a home-cooked …” his words trail.

His complement catches me off guard. Like my brother, I know he has a housekeeper who prepares his meals. And I’m more than sure he has family who caters to him.

“What about your housekeeper?” I bite into the last portion of my food.

“That’s different.”

“Family?”

“It’s complicated,” he confesses.

From the tight-lipped expression on his face, I know it’s a touchy subject, so I don’t push. When we are both done, he takes my plate from me and rinses it along with his over the sink.

He hands me a glass of water and hovers beside me as I drink it.

“What?” Heat rushes to my skin at the weight of his penetrative gaze.

There’s something about the way he looks at me as if stripping away all pretense. It is piercing, intentional, and all-consuming, and the lower part of my body wants nothing more than to experience more of it. More of him.

A current of electricity passes through me. I shiver. My thoughts shift to things. Stupid, irrational, and heat-filled things. Things I have no business envisioning with Xavier.

---