Page 40 of Show Off

“Everyone except Jimmy.” I wasn’t willing to concede that point. “It’s different hearing something like that from a boss or a friend versus total strangers.”

“Not necessarily.” His eyes darkened. For a second I thought he might still be puzzling out whether I’d put on my bra.

For the record, I had. Not that it did much good, the way he looked through my clothes.

“Sometimes it’s worse,” Dal continued. “When someone you love—someone youtrust—blows sunshine up your ass, instead of caring enough to be honest.”

Dammit to hell.

With a huff of frustration, I fling off the sheets. Screw this. I’m getting a snack.

I pull on my robe and stuff my feet into squishy pink slippers. Easing open the door of my suite, I pad down the hall to my parents’ huge kitchen. Neither one cooks, and their chef has the night off. There’s a housekeeper who lives at the other end of this monster McMansion, but I haven’t seen her since this morning.

My stomach growls as I pull open the fridge. I’m not much of a cook, but I make a mean set of scrambled eggs with chives and fresh-ground pepper. Snatching a carton, I pull eggs from the fridge and locate a skillet in one of their rolling drawers. A mixing bowl, too, though I can’t find a whisk to save my life.

I start humming a song, intent on distracting myself from Dal. It’s not until I’m cracking the eggs that I recognize what I’m humming.

“Bon Appétit,” by Katy Perry.

Figures. A sexy-as-hell foodie song. The last thing I need stuck in my head with Dal Yang sleeping just down the hall. Shirtless, I’m sure, because life’s unfair.

“Knock it off,” I mutter, commanding myself to focus. “It’s not happening.”

“What’s not happening?”

I whirl and an egg slips from my fingers. Dal darts forward, catching it before the fragile white sphere hits the ground.

“Holy shit.”

He grins and hands it over. “What’s not happening?”

“Nothing.” My skin tingles where our fingers touched. Turning away, I pull my robe tighter. I should have worn warmer pajamas. I’m in a silky camisole and babydoll shorts with lace at the hem. I like nice sleepwear, okay?

Dal leans on the counter like he’s reading my mind. “Whatcha making?”

“Scrambled eggs.”

“Can I help?”

I turn and grab the bowl off the counter, working hard not to look at him. I’m not even sure what he’s wearing. “Got it covered, thanks.”

“Want hash browns to go with them?”

“No.” My stomach growls. “Maybe.”

Chuckling, Dal bumps me aside and roots through the pantry for a bag of fresh russets. We work in silence a while, Dal grating spuds, me cracking eggs way too hard against the counter.

“Did the chickens piss you off?”

“What?” I look up to see Dal watching me. “What do you mean?”

“You’re whacking their progeny like it’s part of a revenge plot.”

“I know how to crack eggs.” I finish that part of the job and set to work beating them with a fork. It slips from my hand, landing with ablopin the bowl. I fish out the fork, frustrated and way too conscious of Dal working shirtless beside me.

“I’ll help if you want.” He can’t leave well enough alone. “Want me to find a whisk?”

“No.” Except now that he’s offered, I kinda want to know how he’d do it. “How do you make yours?”

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