Page 50 of Axel Martin

Lark

Late-Night Shenanigans

Somewhere between round two and me vowing to never wear clothes again, I realized I was starving. Like,could-eat-an-entire-moosestarving.

“I’m making pancakes,” I announced, slipping on Axel’s shirt and trying to find the kitchen in the dark.

Axel groaned from the bed. “You just declared eternal love for my body and now you’re ditching me for pancakes?”

“Don’t make me choose, Axel. You’ll lose.”

I flicked on the cabin’s overhead light and immediately regretted it. My hair looked like it had wrestled a tornado and lost. Axel appeared in the doorway a second later—bare chest, tousled hair, and the kind of smirk that should be illegal.

“Don’t even think about judging me,” I said, opening the fridge. “You look like you just walked off a romance novel cover. I look like the raccoon that rejected me last week.”

“You know I like raccoons. Especially the sexy, pancake-making kind.” He leaned on the counter and raised an eyebrow. “Is this where I say,‘Nice buns’?”

I flipped the spatula at him.

He dodged. Barely.

And then he grabbed me by the waist and hoisted me onto the counter like I weighed nothing. “You sure you’re ready for round three, Mrs. Martin?”

“I need carbs first,” I breathed. “And maybe an ice pack.”

He chuckled, stealing a kiss—and a slice of bacon while he was at it.

47

Axel

Iwoke up to the sound of humming. Not angelic, peaceful humming—no, this was chaotic, syrup-splattered,I-might-have-murdered-a-waffle-makerkind of humming.

I blinked. The bed beside me was empty. That was my first red flag.

The second was the faint smell of smoke.

I yanked on a pair of sweats and stumbled out of the bedroom to find Lark standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding a fire extinguisher and glaring at the toaster like it had personally offended her.

“I was trying to make you breakfast in bed,” she said, sounding betrayed. “But your toaster is a liar. And maybe possessed.”

I looked at the counter. Half a pancake was stuck to the wall. A waffle was wedged in the sink. And the toaster… well, the toaster had seen better days.

“Lark,” I said slowly, “what happened?”

“I followed a recipe. Sort of. The waffles fought back. And the toaster… burst into flames. I saved your cabin and possibly your life.”

She crossed her arms and added, “You’re welcome.”

I tried not to laugh. Truly, I did. But the soot on her cheek and the defiant stance made it impossible.

“You’re incredible,” I said, pulling her close. “Also, you’re banned from making homemade waffles.”

“Fair. But next time, I’m trying eggs.”

I looked at the fire extinguisher still in her hand.

“I’ll buy a helmet.”

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