Page 58 of The Other Guy

“How do you like your eggs?”

“I don’t care. Whatever is fine with me.”

“After we eat, would you like to shower? I obviously don’t have clean underwear for you to wear but you can wear some of my boxers while we wash yours.”

I blush at the thought of wearing more of his clothes but shrug my indifference. “That’s fine. I can always wait until I go home, too. If the snow lets up, I’m sure Toby and I can manage to walk back home.”

“Walk.”

“Right. Well, I wouldn’t want you to have to drive in this weather. That’s a lot of tro…”

He grunts, interrupting me. “Trouble. Right.”

“Right. It is! It’s a pain in the ass.”

“And if you can’t walk home? What would you like to do today?”

I shrug again. “Whatever. I’m kind of in your way here so if you had plans, I don’t want to be the one who stops you from doing them.”

He looks at me for a long beat before leaning his butt against the counter, hands resting on it, too. Jack sighs heavily and scrubs a hand down his face. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Be compliant.”

“I’m not.”

He sighs again and drops his head, his chin resting against his chest while his shoulders move up and down. Then he walks a few steps and leans over the counter so he’s facing me, his hands just inches from mine. “Sierra, listen to me. If you want something, ask for it. I’m not a troll and I won’t get upset if you want scrambled eggs and I was planning to make fried. If you need to shower, that’s fine. I’m not an idiot, Sierra, and believe me, I can read between the lines better than anyone. I’ve had years of experience with it that I’ll explain to you another time. But I don’t like to see you just letting someone else make the decisions. That’s not who I am. I’m your buddy, remember? And buddies are there for each other. So tell me… what kind of eggs would you like?”

I blow out a breath and look away. “I’m not doing that.”

“You are. And we’re going to get to the bottom of it eventually. Even your dog realized that you weren’t the one making the decisions.”

“Rude.”

“Truthful. There’s a difference. Now, let me ask one more time. What kind of eggs are you in the mood for? I can do omelets, scrambled, fried, poached, boiled.”

“Rambling again?” I tease.

His head gives a shake and a lock of hair falls out of place. I want to push it away so it doesn’t cover his face. But he does it for me, his muscles flexing as he raises a hand and slides his fingers through his chocolate brown hair to push it back. The move shouldn’t turn me on, but it does. Just about everything he does turns me on, it seems. “Simply giving you options. So you can make a choice. A choice that you want.”

We stare at each other, him daring me to argue with him but I can’t. He barely knows me but yet, he knows me. Somehow.

“What do you have to go in the omelets?”

“Atta, girl.” He taps the counter twice with the palm of his hand and stands straight, moving to the fridge and pulling out ingredients. “Mushrooms, green pepper, onion, a few different kinds of cheese, asparagus, spinach, tomatoes, ham.”

“Maybe it would be easier if you told me what you don’t have,” I joke.

“My other meals might be boring as fuck, but I like options for breakfast. And always plenty of veggies, too.”

“Of course. Can’t forget those.”

“Never. So what’ll it be?”

“Can I help? I love to chop stuff.”

“Sous chef Sierra. Has a nice ring to it.”

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