Page 75 of Ride the Sky

“No.” I grin at him and dump the flowers into the vase. “I like knives.”

“Why am I not surprised?” He chuckles. Low and smoky. “Sit,” he says and gestures at the kitchen table.

One word. Stern. Commanding.

I shouldn’t like it so much.

I’m too tired from my kitchen jaunt to argue, so I listen to him, collapsing into the nearest chair.

Wyatt rustles around in the kitchen and then heads my way, his toned chest and abs rippling with each step.

Fuck.

A shirtless Wyatt Montgomery is ruining my life.

I cut him a glare. “Is there a no-shirt convention in town I didn’t hear about?”

He only grins and sets a blue bowl of fruit on the table. Bacon. A platter of pancakes. A variety of condiments. A carafe of coffee.

I blink at the mountain of food. At the cookware I didn’t even know I owned. I never cooked. Dakota was always the chef. After our mother left, my dad let us scrounge until we could all fend for ourselves. Back at El Toro, breakfast, lunch, and dinner consisted of protein bars and hardboiled eggs.

“Here. Your venom to start the morning.” He holds out a cup of coffee. I take it gratefully, and we brush fingers.

He takes a seat across from me, the wind, dancing in from the windows, tousles his dark-gold hair.

“Do you cook a lot?” I ask Wyatt. In all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen the man in a kitchen.

“Hell no. I never cook. I…” He swallows, guilty, embarrassed. “Just wanted to do it for you.”

“Oh.” Warmth washes over me. “Well, thanks.”

For a moment, he holds my gaze. Then he clears his throat. “Let’s eat.”

My stomach rumbles as we dish up our plates. I haven’t realized how hungry I’ve been. How long it’s been since I’ve had a homecooked meal.

I watch in amusement as Wyatt drizzles maple syrup over chocolate chips. As long as I’ve known him, Wyatt’s always had a sweet tooth. He eats Dakota’s pastries like pure sugar fuels him.

“Here,” he says around a mouthful of pancake and nudges a jar of crunchy peanut butter my way. “I know you like it.”

Gritting my teeth, I add a slather of peanut butter on top of my pancake. Makes sense he knows. All the diners we went to after rodeos, on the road. He’d pick up on what I like.

“Eat,” he orders.

“Fine,” I grumble and grab a fork. I cut into my pancakes and lift a gigantic hunk in the air. “Look, see? I am begrudgingly eating my stupid pancakes. And drinking my stupid water.”

I take a bite. They’re good. But I don’t tell him that.

Satisfied, he dips his head.

“Jesus, Wyatt.” I stare, half-impressed, half-disgusted. “You have enough sugar on there to kill a mule.” I arch an eyebrow as he shovels food into his mouth. “Not to mention, you eat like a barbarian.”

“Have to,” he says, gulping down a piece of bacon. “When I was a kid, my brothers would walk up to my food and be like, ‘let me check it for poison first,’ and then they’d all take big-ass bites out of everything I had on my plate.” His face clouds with thememory, and he grumbles boyishly, “Had to defend my damn territory.”

“Ah yes, big brothers, the true threat to independence.” I laugh, surprising myself. Surprising Wyatt.

I drop my eyes to my plate. It’s weird to have breakfast with Wyatt, let alone enjoy it.

Slow mornings. Breakfast. The domesticity of it all makes me want to crawl out of my skin. Two weeks ago, I was dancing with 1,800-pound beasts. Now, I’m eating pancakes and making small talk.

---