Page 61 of Renegade Ruin

The last thing I needed was Bishop overhearing my argument with the board about having the crash victims’ children present at the gala. I already know his thoughts on the matter, and I agree with him. I’m doing everything I can to fix it. That doesn’t mean Bishop will see it that way. If there’s one thing I have come to count on since the crash, it’s when presented with the option of seeing me as the enemy, Bishop Lawson will.

My shoulders slump and I drop my head, a piece of hair falling in my face. Even if we did share a moment of clarity in that equipment room, he’s not someone I can count on to stay rational. Not yet, at least. But I still have hope someday he’ll get there.

Pulling back my shoulders, I find the last bit of resolve I have, tie my hair up, and eye the bar cart in the corner. There’s a part of me that debates downing half a bottle before venturing out to find him, but I decide against it. One of us needs to have a level head.

I push away from the desk I’ve come to hate and drag myself toward the door. Might as well get this over with. I had hoped tonight would be a release—no strings attached sex with a manwho knows how to please a woman—but given the circumstances an all-out brawl is more likely.

The moment I step into the kitchen, I’m hit with a heavenly aroma and my stomach lets out a hopeful growl.

When was the last time I ate a home-cooked meal? Leigh came over with Zach a few weeks before the draft and made me enchiladas. Has it been that long? I can tell you for certain I haven’t had anything homemade since I arrived at the beach house.And today I’m running on empty. I think I opened a granola bar around lunchtime—ah, yes. I did. But it was interrupted by Vaughn demanding I get my shit together and stop insisting I review every single one of his requests to let players go or officially add them to our roster.

He’s not going to like the notes I left in the margins or the veto stamp I bought just for the outrageous suggestions he makes. Not to mention he’s absolutely going to hate the player I’ve got my eye on adding to the roster. Where he’s focused on building a team, I’ve got dreams ofbuilding a legacy.

Bishop’s back is to me when I pad into the kitchen, and I’m struck stupid by the sight of him swinging his hips to what sounds like the melody of Avril Lavine’s “Sk8ter Boi” pumping through his headphones.I slide onto the stool at the island, my eyes locked on the way the hem of his Henley hugs the curves of his trim hips and gives way to the rounded ass and thick thighs made possible by the position he plays. He might be the reason I’ll go gray before I turn thirty, but never let it be said that Bishop is anything but a delicious snack of a man.

“Like what you see?” He chuckles, not bothering to turn around.

I’m not sure how he does it, but he always catches me while I’m staring. And every time, the cocky bastard makes sure I’m aware he knows by asking that same question.

I lean forward onto my elbows and rest my head in my hands as I continue to drink in the sight of the man in my kitchen. “That depends. Are you going to rip me a new one as soon as this song is over?”

His dancing halts and Bishop looks over his shoulder, eyes narrowed. “I didn’t come here to fight with you.”

“No, you came here to fuck me, but it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve jumped down my throat when we’re supposed to be civil.”

Bishop grunts something under his breath, too low for me to hear, as he turns back toward the stove. Flicking off the gas, he makes a show of transferring a perfectly crafted omelet onto a plate. My mouth waters as he grabs a fork from the drawer in the island and slides both in front of me.

“Eat.” It’s more command than a statement and only serves to spark something low in my belly. It's the same tone he uses when he demands I come for him.

And I do. Every. Single. Time.

Flavor explodes on my tongue with the first bite, and an involuntary moan slips from me. “This is delicious.”

“I told you I could cook,” he says and his lips curve into an unguarded smile that I haven’t seen in some time.

I take another bite, savoring just as much as the first. “It’s impressive, considering there was hardly anything to work with.”

Bishop shrugs. “It’s a gift. Just wait until you taste my kung pao chicken.”

My heart stutters and it takes everything for me to focus on taking another bite instead of gaping at him like a fish out of water.

Who is this and what did he do with the man I had the pleasure of dealing with the last few weeks? I’m well acquainted with the prickly version of him that believes I’m the villain. AndI’ve met the broken man who wants to forget. Arguably, my favorite is the man who needs a distraction and doesn’t mind using my body to extract it. Or at least that was my favorite. Until now.

This playful, almost pleasant version is the closest I’ve seen him to the man I remember, and I can’t decide if I want to kiss him, fuck him, or beg him to stay.

All of which are problematic for the exact same reason.

While I eat, Bishop cleans the pan and puts away leftover ingredients. I’m mesmerized by the way he moves with such ease through the kitchen. He’s only been here once, and we spent the majority of that time hiding from the guests of my father’s party and testing the structural integrity of the furniture in my room.

This feels different, almost domestic. There isn’t a hint of the awkwardness I expected when he told me he’d be coming over. It’s easy being around him when he’s like this, so much so that I can almost forget the arrangement and the fact he’s here so we can both ease the pain and forget the bullshit of the day.

Shit. Guilt floods me as I remember why he was coming here in the first place.

I’m not the only one who had a rough go today. Bishop was supposed to have his therapy session. Caught up after the argument in my meeting, I didn’t even think to ask him how it went.

I finish the last bite of my omelet and round the island to put my dish in the sink so that I can make sure he’s okay.

The plate barely touches the bottom when I feel the heat of Bishop’s body pressing against my back. His large frame makes me feel small, but more than that, it makes me feel safe. He traces the tips of his fingers down my forearms until he reaches the counter, gripping the lip on either side of me. His breath on my neck sends shivers down my spine, and I clench my thighs in anticipation.

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