Page 71 of Heroes & Hitmen
I wake up alone,which at first blush feels like business as usual. Then my sleepy brain catches up and I remember a crucial detail from the night before– that Ares didn’t sleep on the couch. He slept in here, in this bed. Withme.
Rolling over, I examine the space next to mine just to confirm it’s real. The sheets are rumpled, his scent clinging to them like a cloying perfume. It’s both comforting and alarming, which just about sums up my entire experience with Ares Raines.
I expected to wake up and find him sprawled out, occupying as much real estate as possible, long limbs flung in every direction. But he’s not here. The only evidence he was is the tangle of sheets and his crumpled t-shirt still resting on the foot of the bed where he tossed it last night before climbing in beside me.
Weird. I don’t remember him leaving. Or how I ended up half on his chest and half off the side of the bed when I woke up in the middle of the night, like I tried to escape the trap of cuddling with him but lost the will halfway.
Flopping onto my back with a groan, I cover my face with my hands, the memories of last night creeping back in and flooding my brain with brilliant technicolor.
Another sexcapade in an alley. Real classy, Miley.
Embarrassment heats my cheeks as I scrub my hands down my face, flinching at the sound of a metallic clang from the direction of the kitchen. I sit up with a start, brain still foggy. My nose twitchesas the scent of bacon registers, underscored by the aroma of fresh coffee wafting through the open door.
It’s more than enough to lure me out of bed. I swing my legs over the side, hit the bathroom, then run a brush through my hair. A few minutes later I’m following the smell down the hall, tripping over Ares’ abandoned shoes along the way and nearly faceplanting on the hardwood.
Graceful.
I have half a mind to tell him off for leaving his stuff lying around for me to trip over, but as I get closer to the kitchen, I realize bacon isn’t the only thing cooking. There’s something else, sweet and warm, like cinnamon and sugar.French toast, maybe?My mouth waters at the possibilities.
All speculation fades the second I step into the kitchen and see therealshowstopper– the six-foot-something, copper-haired hunk of man standing at the stove with his back to me. Ares’ shoulders shift as he flips bacon with ridiculous precision, muscles flexing like he’s being filmed for some kind of breakfast-themed thirst trap. And he’s also… okay.Wow.
He’s wearing my frilly pink apron.
And nothing else.
Well, boxer briefs. But that barely counts when his entire back, thighs, and arms are on full, tanned, glistening display. My mouth runs dry in spite of how absurd he looks dressed in my apron– pastel pink with white lace trim, covered in little pink embroidered hearts. A gift from my sister Jordan, meant to be a passive-aggressive joke about my ‘domestic goddess’ potential. The man clearly has no shame, because he’s rocking it like it’s fashion.
Ares either senses me lurking in the doorway or hears the sound of my heart threatening to beat out of my chest, turning at the waist with a spatula in one hand and a coffee mug in the other. He hits me with a movie-star smile and my knees go a little weak.
“Morning, babe.”
He says it with his mouth, but his eyes do the heavy lifting, raking over my form with an intensity that makes goosebumps rise on my skin.
I point a finger at him to deflect from my reaction, snorting a laugh. “Are you serious right now?”
“What, you don’t think pink’s my color?” he asks, lookingdown at himself and smoothing the front of the apron with a palm. It’s barely large enough to cover his abs, much less his entire torso.
Jesus.
“Very Martha Stewart,” I quip, trying to play it cool.
His lips spread into a grin as he sets down the spatula and strikes a pose. “Would you like your bacon crispy, or…” he trails off, striking another pose and flexing. “Extra crispy?”
I lose the fight against a laugh, the sound of it bubbling up from my throat. Slapping a hand over my mouth to cover it, I roll my eyes, shaking my head. “You’re such an idiot,” I mutter, aiming a smirk his way as I wander over to the counter and grab the coffee pot off the burner. I pour myself a cup, add a shitload of caramel creamer, then take a cautious sip. It’s sweet, scalding, and so strong my toes curl.I love it.
“Didn’t peg you for the domestic type,” I remark as I hop up to sit on the counter a few feet from the stove, watching Ares from behind the rim of my mug as he resumes flipping bacon.
“I’m not a gourmet chef or anything, but I know my way around a kitchen,” he replies with a shrug, glancing over at me and arching a brow. “You hungry?”
I nod, not trusting myself to answer without sounding like a pervert.
Ares plates up the bacon, then starts cracking some eggs into a bowl. I can’t help but watch the way his forearms tense with every motion, the efficiency of every move. He works the whisk with the same concentration I imagine he must give a loaded rifle. It’s weirdly hot.
“So, do you cook breakfast for all the girls you sleep with?” I tease, voice a little rough.
He glances over at me, a smirk curling his lips. “Why, you regretting not inviting me into the bed sooner?”
“Thought you said life’s too short for regrets,” I fire back.
