Page 61 of Sweet Deception
No wonder Darren’s simple question has me paralyzed.
Eating breakfast with him would be… I stop that train in its tracks.
I don’t want to admit, even to myself, what eating breakfast with this man would mean.
Instead, I nod and watch as he returns his attention to cooking.
The silence stretches between us, filled only by the crackle of frying bacon.
Darren shuts off the stove and methodically arranges every little thing on our plates.There’s something almost soothing about how he handles each task with such attention.
I settle in at the island, resting my arms on the bright granite countertop.
“Your friend on the phone.” Darren doesn’t turn from the stove. “She called youNika.”
I hope to Godhe didn’t catch the way my cheeks flushed out of his peripheral vision when he said my nickname. Those two little syllables have never sounded so…sensual. But maybe that’s only because I’ve never heard a man like Darren say them.
Horrible. This is horrible. And I want to fan my damn face, but he’ll for sure notice that.
“Yes.” The word rushes from my mouth. I’m hoping we can drop this subject ASAP. My fingers fly up to my grandmother’s cross fastened around my neck, as they always do whenever I’m especially flustered or nervous. “My grandmother gave me the nickname. She passed away when I was thirteen.”
Why the hell did I just tell him that?
“And you prefer that?”
My eyes snap to him. “What do you care what I prefer?”
He shrugs as if he’s not sending me into some kind of existential crisis. “Curious, I guess.”
I clear my throat and drop my eyes to the plate of food he sets down. Eggs, bacon, and toast with Irish butter.Yum.
Finally, I manage, “Precious few people use my nickname.”
Darren passes me some silverware. As our fingertips brush, he hums. “Nika.That suits you better than Veronika.”
“Thank you.” I mean for the food, but it definitely sounds like I’m appreciating his…compliment? Comment. Yes, his comment. Geesh.
He sits across from me at the island, and I’m thankful for the distance. Just being in the same room is obviously a challenge for me.
We both dig into our meal, which is positivelydivinedespite its simplicity. These are the fluffiest, most flavorful eggs I’ve ever eaten. The bacon has that perfect crispy texture, not too chewy, not burned or greasy. The Irish butter accents the toast like classical music does ballet.
And everything tastes so good that my walls come down, and Darren and I fall into an easy rhythm over breakfast.
He describes the finer points of street racing while feeding more bits of egg to Piro, who, I’m beginning to think, won’t want to come home even if Darren does let me go.
I find myself laughing—actually laughing—at his story about a racer who thought NOS was short forNo Other Speed. I have no clue about the acronym, which he goes on to explain means nitrous oxide systems, which is some kind of performance-enhancing modification that boosts the engine power. Though I would at least expect street racers to understand the acronym.
When he goes to pour orange juice into our glasses, I glimpse it again…that spot he missed. A dark smudge of motor oil on his jawbone.
Then, as though my hand has a mind of its own, it abandons my fork and floats up to his face to wipe the mark away.
Darren’s skin is warm under my fingertips, and he goes completely still at my touch.
And then, so do I.
Our eyes lock as an intimate moment stretches between us, a wide-open road full of possibilities…
Until his buzzing phone breaks the spell.
