Page 46 of Bad Boy Next Door
To distract myself from my raging horniness, I turned on the oven and started putting strips of bacon onto a parchment-paper-covered baking sheet. “You okay with toast?” I asked. “Or I could do biscuits.”
“Toast is fine, and…”
“And what?” I turned back. “Biscuits are no problem. Easy peasy. Or I could make pancakes?”
“You don’t need to feed me. This isn’t… I don’t feel right about…”
“It’s no problem.” I felt bad that he still felt bad. “Even if I didn’t owe you, I’d be happy to cook you breakfast. Good neighbor stuff and all that. I like cooking, plus I need to eat, and it’s just as easy to make it for two.”
Happiness nearly lifted me off the kitchen floor. It had always given me pleasure to cook for others, especially people I cared about, but cooking for Nick… This feeling… It so wasn’t me.
For the first time in my life, I was having visions of domestic bliss. Of sharing my life with someone—sharing it with Nick. Assuming I hadn’t already ruined my chances.
I put the bacon in the oven and turned on the heat under my cast-iron skillet so it would heat slowly and be ready for the eggs. I wiped the bacon grease off my fingers with a cloth, taking longer than I needed to, gearing myself up for my apology and rehearsing what I was going to say.
Slowly I turned, and when I looked up, he was leaning against the island part of the counter, watching me. He let his gaze drop, like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. I felt so freaking guilty.
I’d done that. I’d made this big strong man think the floor, even the air around me, was covered in eggshells—more like land mines. I’d made him think he’d done something wrong when all the wrong was on me.
“Nick…” I cleared my throat. “What I said before, about keeping things casual between us.” I swallowed, my mouth parched. “Do you want a beer? I could use a beer.”
“Sure.”
I went for the fridge, but he did, too, and our hands landed on the handle together.
His flew off mine like I’d burned him.
I reached for that burned hand, and as I threaded our fingers together, his gaze rose from our hands to my eyes. Unable to bear the magnetic heat, I lifted onto my toes, pulled his head down with my other hand, and kissed him.
Action-based apologies were more my style.
I felt him groan more than I heard it, the sound rumbling through his lips to mine and spreading through my body. But all too soon he pulled his head away, breaking the kiss and dropping my hand.
“Before we do any more ofthat”—he opened the fridge and grabbed two beers—“we need to talk.”
“You’re right.” I took the beer he’d opened for me. “Better to keep dessert for last.” I shot him a knowing look, but he glanced away quickly.
A few short hours ago, that line would have gotten at least a grin or a laugh. I was screwing this up, and— The pan was smoking. Crap. I was going to ruin the food, too, maybe burn down Shady Oaks.
“Maybe we should talkafterwe eat?” I was such a chickenshit. “So I can concentrate on cooking?”
“Yes,” he said quickly. “Let’s talk after breakfast.”
After taking the skillet off the heat, I checked the bacon, then took the eggs and butter out of the fridge.
“Who taught you how to cook?” he asked.
“I taught myself. Read some stuff in the library. Watched YouTube.”
“Really? Wow. What about your mom?”
I grabbed a knife and the loaf of bread I’d baked earlier in the day, setting it on a wooden cutting board. “She was out of the picture, left for good when I was seven. After that it was just Dad and Crystal and me.”
“Crystal’s your sister?”
“Yeah.” I sliced a third piece of bread. “Two slices? Three?”
“Two’s good.”
